


Encyclopedia Aetherica

by bluestar



Series: Pacific Rim AUs [2]
Category: Pacific Rim
Genre: Gen, Gore, Skyrim AU, game-typical violence, oh god giant spiders, warnings for:
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-20
Updated: 2015-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-21 23:48:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 26,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2486756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluestar/pseuds/bluestar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Dwemer we trust.</p><p>--</p><p> </p><p>A fic based off of Geniusbee's fantastic Skyrim AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

        The _Horizon Brave_ had been moored in Windhelm for over an hour, and Hermann was having a miserable time. The wind was freezing, the bay stunk of greasy smoke and fish, and every single human lurking out on the docks was eyeing him as though he was about to turn rabid, rip off his robes and run screaming for the blood of their women and children. It was incredibly trying on his travel-worn temper; the initial voyage out from Blackmarsh had gone smoothly enough, but once he had hit the halfway point across the Sea of Ghosts and Skyrim was sitting on the horizon, the mood on board had swung into a low. 

            He shifted his pack, wincing at how the leather straps bit through his cloak, fur-lined jacket, and robes straight into his shoulders. The additional clothing was heavy and uncomfortable for someone so used to far more humid and warm climates, and anyway were completely ineffective – he was shivering like mad, every gust of wind seeming to spear right through him. The incessant rocking of the boat was deeply unpleasant as well. An Argonian getting seasick seemed laughable in theory, but Hermann spent the majority of his time _in_ the water, not _on_ it – all a sensible person had to worry about in the water were unexpected twists in currents and large, hungry animals, not the completely unbearable turbulence of a wind-tossed surface.

            “Pardon me,” he said finally, grabbing a deckhand who had been trying to skirt his way around Hermann and avoid eye contact. “We’ve been moored for some time and I still haven’t been allowed to disembark. Is there a problem?”

            “No,” the deckhand said, letting a pregnant pause sit between them and looking pointedly down at Hermann’s hand; Hermann let him go with an affected pleasant smile, withdrawing and clasping his hands in his sleeves like a monk.

            “Well, that’s good to know,” he said. Silence spiraled awkwardly, broken only when Hermann cleared his throat. “So…the reason we haven’t disembarked…?”

            “Harbormaster’s got some issues with passengers,” the deckhand said abruptly. “Might be having to reroute to Dawnstar.”

            “What for? The dock is seven feet away. I could _jump_ to it.”

            “Maybe you ought to,” another deckhand muttered. Hermann looked at him, chagrined; the ship’s crew had been blithely indifferent to his presence at best the entire trip, and the sudden switch in mood was unsettling.

            “Have I offended you somehow?” Hermann asked. The second deckhand simply kept walking, though the first found a glimmer of awkward sympathy.

            “Argonians aren’t exactly popular in Windhelm,” he said. “It’s always a slog trying to get your lot processed.”

            “My _lot?”_ Hermann repeated icily. “You know, you all seemed perfectly affable having me aboard when I _paid_ to be taken to Windhelm. And lo and behold, here we are. I see the gangplank has already been lowered, so I can _happily_ remove my presence and we can all be on our way.”

            The deckhand had the grace to look embarrassed, turning away from Hermann and gesturing uselessly at the docks.

            “It’s just that…the harbormaster, sir,” he said lamely. Hermann gave an impressive snort, adjusting his pack and picking up the staff that leaned innocuously by the crate he had been sitting on.

            “I think I’ll just be going now,” he said. The deckhand’s embarrassment turned to slight alarm as he followed behind Hermann, a hand hovering just over his shoulder as though debating whether to grab him or not. The Argonian’s lurching gate was slow; the effort to walk on the deck had been a sore trial for him, the old injury in his leg giving him nothing but trouble as the boat swayed and pitched beneath him. The staff had been even more invaluable than usual, though he had had to be careful not to trip people with it in the close quarters.

            “You can’t just waltz into the city, sir. You’ll be turned out on your ear,” the deckhand said, edging anxiety. Hermann clicked his teeth in annoyance.

            “Lucky for me I have no intention of staying in this glorified pile of rocks then,” he muttered. He pushed through a gaggle of port officials and the rather harassed-looking captain, who had been in quiet, irritated discussion with a Nord with skin so weathered by sun and wind he looked positively leathery.

            “Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me,” Hermann said, wending his way towards the gangplank. The Nord caught his arm roughly.

            “You’ll need to register-”

            “I’ll do no such thing, as I have no intention of inflicting myself on your city. Unhand me. _Right now.”_

The Nord’s eyes widened and he let go, surprised at the sharpness in Hermann’s tone; it seemed likely he wasn’t used to being talked back to by Argonians in any capacity. Taking brief satisfaction in the small victory, Hermann stepped off the ship and took a moment to enjoy the feeling of solid, unmoving earth beneath his feet again. His gloves made the grip on his staff tenuous and he held it more tightly as he noted the Nords watching him go – there were more than a fair share of Argonians and Dunmer giving him passing looks as well. He walked stiffly past them all, climbing the slippery black stone stairs into a back passage worming through the city, set on finding the front gate.

            It was somehow even colder in the inside. The corridors were dank and smelled of unnamable, unpleasant things; Hermann nearly tripped over several abandoned mead bottles and more than once had to catch himself from slipping on hidden slicks of ice. The butt of his staff rapped sharply against the worn flagstones; Hermann felt half-blind in the murky environment after spending the whole morning being dazzled by the harsh sunlight glancing off the water. He rubbed at his eyes periodically, grumbling to himself.

            “My _lot_ ,” he muttered. “What _about_ my _lot._ Never seen an Argonian before? Plenty of them slaving on those bloody docks. What am I going to do that’s so offensive, start shedding my skin and laying eggs everywhere?”

            There was a susurrus of conversation drifting towards him from a branching corridor that lead out into the open air. Hermann walked towards it as fast as his sore leg would allow, relieved to be out of the rank tunnel and back into fresh air. The relief was short lived as another gust of wind rushed up to greet him, clawing at his eyes and setting a deep, miserable ache in his sinuses. He groaned, putting a hand over his face and wishing he’d thought to bring a hooded cloak. It was supposed to be late spring in Skyrim, for the love of the Hist; if this was what _spring_ was in this Nord-infested province he had no desire to experience winter.

            Conversation lulled as he left the tunnel, walking stiffly across the snowy plaza. He gave the inn belching smoke from a high chimney a longing look, briefly tormenting himself with the idea of a blazing fire, warm food and a place to sleep that didn’t smell of brine and too many people packed into a small, unventilated area like the ship’s hold. Hermann reasoned that the inn wouldn’t be a pleasant spot to stop anyway, not with the anti-Argonian sentiment floating around so obviously. He shifted his pack on his shoulders again, took a firmer grip of his staff, and turned away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

            The road was empty. Hermann had left Windhelm several hours ago, asking a cheerful Bosmer and his decidedly less-cheerful wife directions towards proper civilization. Winterhold was approximately two weeks away going on foot, and several days by carriage. However, yhe stable’s lone carriage was currently out with other passengers, and wasn’t expected back for a week. Hermann had briefly toyed with the idea of purchasing a horse for lack of better options, but the Bosmer’s stables were unhelpfully empty of the beasts.

            “There’s a war on,” he’d explained apologetically as Hermann ground his teeth and tried to keep his tail from lashing in useless frustration. “Sometimes the Jarl….requisitions.”

            “That can’t be legal.”

            The Bosmer had merely shrugged.

            “Jarl’s hold, Jarl’s laws. Sometimes you have to flow with the current rather than struggle against it.”

            “How poetic.”

            And so, Hermann found himself walking alone on a road that, while uneven and isolated, was at least growing warmer. The Bosmer stable-master had even given him a map, pointing out locations both safe and potentially life-threatening. It didn’t do Hermann’s mood any favors to find the latter was far more common than the former. Skyrim, he decided, was a place that would make or break a foreign visitor within the first twenty four hours of their stay. A lone traveler limping his way through forested roads was easy pickings for several different breeds of unpleasant things that would love to see him ten different kinds of dead .Luckily enough Hermann knew how to handle himself. He hardly counted himself as fearless and would gladly avoid skirmishes if he could, but he was quite confident in his own ability to survive.

 The day was waning from late afternoon to early evening when he found his first way-post; the hunter’s hut was tucked away a short distance from the main road, with a cold fire pit that hadn’t seen use in at least a fortnight. The Bosmer had marked it on the map for Hermann helpfully, remarking the shack had a decent roof and sturdy walls at the very least. Hermann ducked inside the hut, looking around. His lips curled over his teeth in disdain at the drab, dusty room, hardly more than four paces wide.  It would have to do; the next stop would take another full day of walking to get to, and his leg was aching with the promise of worsening pain if he didn’t rest.

Sitting down on the ‘cot’, which was little more than a webbing of hempen rope stretched between four stout posts in one corner, Hermann eased the pack off his back with a sigh of relief. He set his staff on the wall beside him, leaning it so that it was within quick and easy reach. He rooted through his pack, taking out a book, a tightly-wrapped loaf of traveler’s bread, and a lump of hard cheese. A brook trickled musically behind the hut, and for that he was grateful; he’d drunk all his water several hours ago.

            “Hardly the best start to the endeavor, is it,” he said to himself sullenly. “Squatting in a hunter’s hovel in the middle of nowhere.”

            The reception in Windhelm had soured his attitude towards the entire venture, though it wasn’t very venerable and important to begin with. The whole thing had been set off with the arrival of a water-stained, crinkled letter from an old acquaintance of his father’s, requesting access to research materials. The chance to visit and play courier to the College of Winterhold had been an opportunity he’d jumped on - his father was away on business in the Empire and would be away for months yet, helping with…well, Hermann didn’t quite know or care. Lars never included Hermann in any of his own work; the rare opportunity for Hermann to free himself of Blackmarsh and do a little fieldwork on his own had been too tempting to resist.

Hermann gnawed at his poor excuse for a dinner, eyes narrowed as he stared at the rough planks of the hut’s walls. _Play courier._ The idea had held immense appeal while he was stuck in Blackmarsh, but now that he was here in Skyrim the silvery veneer of Good Idea had effectively worn off. The longer Hermann sat on his rope cot, the more he realized just what his situation truly was. The artifact in his pack was ancient, heavy, and of absolutely no importance to anyone but a Dwemer scholar. A scholar like _himself_ , actually, though he admitted freely he had no idea what the damn thing was. For all he knew it could be a complicated child’s toy.

He peered into his pack and gave the oilskin-wrapped package a cursory look. The weeks of travel by road and sea hadn’t damaged it, though somehow Hermann was certain it would take a lot more than being bounced around in a rucksack to harm it. He set his pack aside to serve as an eventual uncomfortable pillow on the cot, picking up his book and squinting in the waning daylight as he ate. Night birds and crickets soon began to sing as the sun slid behind the pines and out of sight, leaving the world in a cool gloaming. Hermann read until the words were undiscernible; he put the book away with a sigh and stood, stretching. The ever-present ache in his leg had faded to its usual bearable levels, and he found he could hobble out of the hut with little issue. He looked around speculatively; the woods were quiet but not threatening with it, the world not holding its breath as some terror from the wilds crept up on unsuspecting prey.

Satisfied with his apparent safety, Hermann nonetheless knelt down and traced a sharp claw in the dirt. The runic wheel was a simple one; he had drawn it a thousand times in practice and several times in practical use. A simple, deeply effective deterrent to nighttime visitors – one step on the wheel and it would ignite instantly, immolating the victim. Hermann had never actually had one of his wheels detonate before and didn’t look forward to the theoretical day when it would; he didn’t relish the idea of someone dying at his hands. But it was either him or the bandit, animal or _whatever_ _else_ lurked in Skyrim, and he wholeheartedly chose himself over the lot.

The wheel glowed with faint red threads of light by the time he’d sketched the last symbol, murmuring under his breath – intention of fire, of light and heat, of burning flesh and melted armor. The air shimmered faintly around the wheel as it glowed in completion, going dormant as he stood stiffly and hobbled back into the hut. Hermann settled back down on the rope cot, head pillowed on his lumpy pack, and eventually fell asleep.


	2. Chapter 2

Hermann woke to the sound of sharp, panicked squeals. He sat straight up and grabbed his staff, eyes wide as he stared out into the pre-dawn gloom. His runic wheel was still lying dormant and waiting at the doorless threshold; the noise was coming from behind the hut. There was a hideous dry clicking sound that made Hermann’s insides shrivel, and he found himself curling up instinctively to make himself smaller. The squeals were growing weaker as the clicking grew louder, and there was a series of disgustingly wet ripping sounds. Hermann swallowed hard against the bile rising inexplicably in his throat, sliding off the rope cot and creeping towards a sizeable crack in the wall between two ill-fitting boards.

                  He peered through the crack, his breath coming in short, smothered bursts as the ripping continued. The clicks were replaced with the unmistakable noise of sloppy chewing; Hermann squinted at a large, misshapen lump almost out of view to the left of the hut, and then recoiled as he realized what it was. A frostbite spider had taken down a juvenile elk and was currently tearing into it not even twelve feet away. Several other elk were lingering in the further background, spooked by the spider and looking ready to bolt. Hermann felt a swell of revulsion as the spider tore bits of its unfortunate prey off and swallowed them, its mandibles pushing the meat into its mouth.

                  There was no such thing as a good frostbite spider unless it was dead from fire, frozen, or exploded into as many small pieces as physically possible. Hermann swallowed again to tamp down his nausea at the sight of the beast, feeling very trapped inside the hut. They rarely hunted alone…which meant there were possibly one or _several_ others skittering around close by.  He knew the runic wheel would protect him in case the spiders tried to creep inside the hut, but Hermann had no desire to remain trapped and cowering.

                  “Had to be spiders,” he muttered to himself hoarsely. “It had to be bloody _spiders,_ didn’t it.”

                  There was a sharp snap of bones as the spider did untold horrible things to its meal outside; Hermann nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound, revolted. There was no way he was going to stay in this wretched hovel with those things outside. He gathered up his pack and slung it over his shoulders, his knuckles nearly going white as he clutched his staff. He leaned down quickly and traced two horizontal lines through one of the key runes in the wheel; the spell negated at once with a thin fizzling sound, glowing dimly silver and then dying completely. It wouldn’t do at all to let some poor hapless hunter enter the hut and be burnt to death for his troubles, after all.

                  The spider was still busily eating but the sounds were slowing down; surely there was very little left of the elk by now. Hermann crept away from the hut as quietly as he could; eyes stretched wide as he gave the shadowed stand of pines a wide berth. He was almost hyper-aware of everything around him; the wind, the creak of branches and the song of birds. He combed through innocent forest noises anxiously, trying to suss out the sound of creeping feet and the clicking of chitin. Maybe the spider really had been hunting alone. Maybe…

                  There was a sharp gurgling hiss somewhere in the trees, and Hermann shouted in alarm as a splatter of venom struck the hem of his robes. The fabric seemed to sizzle and he whirled around, swinging his staff and the carved head pointing into the dark. A second spider raised its hairy front legs in threat, mandibles flared and the sickly green venom leaking from its mouth in ropes. Hermann stared it down, backing up for every step it took forward. He stabbed the staff forward like a spear, hissing through his teeth.

                  “Get back! Get _back!”_

                  The spider gave a hideous noise in response, body rolling as though it was about to vomit – Hermann cried out in alarm and ducked towards the right as the spider spat another glob of venom. It hit the ground and sizzled faintly where it struck. Hermann stabbed the staff at the spider again and roared; the spell tasted like ash in his mouth, the heat parching his throat. Fire erupted from the tip of the staff and bathed the spider. It squealed thinly and staggered into the middle of the road, collapsing as the fire overwhelmed it and its legs folding in on its body.

                  Hermann panted for breath, adrenaline singing through him and his nerves stretched to snapping. There was a second low hiss behind him; he turned on his heel and swung the staff around as the first spider crawled towards him, its head and forelimbs splattered with gore. He gathered his strength and bellowed out the fire spell again; his tongue felt cracked and his throat ached, but the sight of the beast recoiling and fleeing into the woods was worth the pain. The entire battle had taken less than five minutes but Hermann felt completely spent; he tottered and sank down to sit in the middle of the road, the staff hugged against his chest as he fought to catch his breath.

                  He had no affinity for fire and it always taxed his magicka use to exhausting levels; give him a good bit of frost magic any day over the parching, dehydrating drain of fire…Hermann let himself fall back on the hard packed dirt of the road, looking up at the thick roof of pine boughs above him. The sun had hardly risen and the sky was stained in pink and gold. His vision slid briefly out of focus and he blinked hard, rolling over and struggling to his feet. He felt ravenous; the brook was still bubbling cheerfully behind the hut, and he hobbled to it, dropping to his knees and simply sticking his snout in the water, taking long gulps.

                  The water tasted heavily of minerals and was so cold it hurt. Hermann drank it down like it was fine wine, certain he’d never tasted anything sweeter in his life. He had to force himself to stop after a few minutes, knowing he’d make himself sick if he drank too much too quickly. He sat back on his heels and dabbed at his face with his sleeve, relieved as he felt the magically-inflicted dehydration ebb. His stomach growled as he eased his pack off his shoulders and dug through it for the loaf of traveler’s bread. It was hard as a rock and required careful gnawing if the diner valued their teeth, but Hermann tore into it voraciously.

                  Less than forty eight hours into Skyrim and he’d already been assaulted by the local wildlife. He snorted in wry amusement; give him a week and he’d be fighting off draugr and wisp-mothers. The amused thought turned sour as he realized just how likely that was, and he looked around uneasily. The woods were serene though there were crows already flitting through the trees and beadily eyeing the remains of the elk. Hermann’s stomach gave an unpleasant lurch as he looked at the remains, allowing himself the brief shuddering thought of what the spiders could have done to him. Frostbite spiders ate their prey alive.

                  “None of that,” he said sternly to himself. “You won. Don’t ruin it, you dolt.”

                  His leg was aching from kneeling for so long on the hard ground; he filled his waterskin, tore off one last bite of bread and pushed himself up, relieved to feel his energy restored. The smoking ruin of the first spider was little more than a melted lump of chitin; he prodded it with the butt of his staff, momentarily regretful that he had ruined it so fully. Frostbite venom had some value and his modest travel funds could certainly use the padding. He resisted the more childish urge to kick the corpse, giving it one last disgusted look before he started down the road again.

                  After the harrowing events of the morning, the rest of the day seemed almost dull. The road was empty of anyone aside from the occasional wandering elk or fox; Hermann heard the distant howling of a wolf pack at one point, but they sounded far enough away that he didn’t worry about them overmuch. The spring weather he had hoped for in Windhelm was in full swing, even if it was still cooler than he was used to. Flowers grew thickly and he had to resist the temptation to stop and gather samples of them every few feet; the mountain flowers were clouds of reds, blues and purples bordering the road on both sides, dotted occasionally with unexpected stands of nightshade and deathbell.

                  Hermann wondered at the deathbell’s presence; old wives tales spoke of the plant thriving only in places of violence and old bloodshed. He didn’t put much stock in the stories, but the deathbell’s opalescent flowers springing up everywhere still gave him a vague sense of unease. Growing up in Blackmarsh had taught him the world was dangerous, but the parts he had lived in were still tamed – for the most part. The furthest he had gone into the unconquered wilds was a pilgrimage to a stand of Hist when he was twelve; he had spent most of the trip buried in a book, much to his mother’s exasperation. His brothers and sister had been far more moved by the experience than he had. It wasn’t that he wasn’t impressed by the sentient trees, really – they were marvels. He just didn’t see why it was that Argonians revered them as gods.

                  Allowing himself to get lost in comfortable theories and old one-sided discussions, Hermann walked without noticing the slow change in the landscape from pine forest into something far less verdant. It wasn’t until he tripped over a slick tangle of creep cluster that he blinked back to reality, looking around in surprise. The air was laced thinly with the smell of sulfur and there was a close stand of hot springs sending plumes of steam dozens of feet into the air. Curiosity drove Hermann down a rough dirt path into the edges of the volcanic landscape, covering his snout with one hand as the sulfur grew stronger.

                  There were patches of gold leaves spreading in a thick carpet by his feet; he looked down and made a quietly delighted sound to see bunches of jazbay peeking through leaf cover. He leaned down and picked one at once, polishing it off on his robe and popping it into his mouth. The fruit was disappointingly bland; Hermann spat the pips out with a sigh.

                  “They’re not the rare luxury you’d expect, are they?”

                  Hermann jolted and whirled around, his staff raised defensively. An Orc woman was sitting on a far ledge of stone, polishing a dagger of some strange green metal; Hermann’s mouth went dry at the sight of it. She was dressed in rough armor of fur and leather that had seen more than its share of use, the breastplate scarred and pitted.

                  “No,” he said carefully, eyes fixed on the dagger. “Taste rather off, actually.”

                  The Orc smiled faintly, giving a nod. She didn’t seem aware of Hermann’s clear discomfort, or else wasn’t inclined to do anything to soothe it. She ran the rag over the dagger’s serpentine blade meticulously, cleaning every jagged edge.

                  “Traveling alone, friend?”

                  The question screamed of _‘I am going to kill you and no one will ever find your body’_. Hermann’s grip on his staff tightened painfully; this woman wasn’t some mindless frostbite spider to be taken down with a basic fire spell. She glanced over at him and smiled–any friendliness in the gesture was twisted by the sharp tusks peeking out over her lips. She seemed amused by the look on his face; Hermann could only imagine he looked slightly panicked and doing a poor job of hiding it.

“You’re not very talkative, are you?” she asked. She slid off the ledge and dropped a short ways to the ground, putting the rag in a pouch on her belt and the dagger in a well-worn sheath. She held her hands up, giving another sharp-toothed smile. “You can relax. Unless you’re a very cleverly disguised elk or bear, I don’t have much interest in killing you.”

Hermann relaxed slightly, looking past her to a small clearing nestled by the ledge; a rough tent of cured animal hide stood in one corner. On the other side of the camp were the remains of a shaggy-coated goat; it had been skinned and jointed, and several bits of it were in the process of being cooked over the cheerily blazing campfire.

“You’re a hunter,” he said unnecessarily, relieved. The Orc nodded in amusement.

“Takes a while but you catch on in the end,” she said. Hermann laughed.

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to be rude.”

She waved off the apology with a shrug, unoffended.

“Pays to be suspicious of strangers,” she said. “Just means you’re being smart. Are you walking around alone, though? Takes a brave man or a fool to do that around here.”

“Or an equal measure of both,” Hermann replied dryly. “Got it into my head I’d be _walking_ to Winterhold.”

“That’s a good way to get yourself killed before the week’s out, mage or not.”

He blinked in surprise and the Orc grinned, baring her sharp teeth more fully.

“I didn’t think it was that obvious,” he said, looking down at himself uncertainly.

“The showy robes are a bit of a giveaway. The stick isn’t helping either if you’re trying to be subtle,” she said. “Magic’ll only earn you dirty looks if you start flaunting it in the smaller towns, I wouldn’t worry too much.”

“Last thing I want to do is draw much attention to myself.”

“It does seem to make you uncomfortable,” the Orc said. Hermann gave an embarrassed cough and looked away, making her snort with amusement. “Sorry, sorry.”

“No trouble,” he said, glancing towards the main road. He gestured feebly towards it. “I should…probably get back to it, then.”

“I wouldn’t. There’s trouble down the road, damned giants are moving a herd of mammoth towards the mountain pass. Think they can take up the whole blasted road as long as they like.”

“Oh. And if one were to attempt to…go around them?”

The Orc simply shook her head, and Hermann sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Ah. I see. Unnecessary risk to life and limb?”

“To put it lightly.”

Hermann rubbed at his eyes in aggravation, trying to will away the building tension headache.

“Any suggestions?”

The Orc made a thoughtful sound, tapping her fingers against her lips and looking around at her camp, and then glanced back over at Hermann.

“Care to stay for lunch?"


	3. Chapter 3

The Orc woman’s name was Sasha. She and her husband had been hunting in the area for several days before the giants had decided to make their plodding, passively life-threatening presence known, and had been camped out ever since waiting out the mass migration up the road into the mountain pass. Her husband was quiet, though surprisingly polite; Hermann nevertheless found himself chattering nervously whenever it was he and Aleksis alone, trying to fill the silence with anything to distract him from the Orc’s steadily piercing gaze.

Hermann’s contributions to the camp were minimal. He was a useless shot with bow and arrow, couldn’t do much for cooking aside from boiling water, and had no stomach for skinning and jointing the dead rabbits and goats the Orcs kept bringing back. He was determined to make some kind of reciprocation for the hospitality; finding it had been deeply unexpected this far in the wilds.  He contented himself to quietly gather firewood unasked and tend to the hunters’ enormous horse, watering and feeding it.

“So what is it you’re bringing to Winterhold, anyway?” Sasha asked over lunch on the second day, passing Hermann a heel of bread and a rough wooden bowl of stew. He frowned thoughtfully at the pack resting by his feet, shaking his head.

“If I knew for sure, I’d tell you,” he said. “Some old Dwemer artifact from my father’s collection… had it for years. No idea where he got it from.”

“Dwemer,” Sasha echoed, mouth twisting as though the word was distasteful. “Never did like anything they had their hands in…something unsavory about them and those machines of theirs.”

“Spoken like someone who’s been on the wrong end of their attentions.”

Sasha gave a sharp bark of laughter.

“Not me personally. Aleksis ran into trouble with them once.”

                  Hermann looked over at the Orc man with a spark of excited interest; Aleksis sighed, giving his wife a sidelong glance that made her grin wolfishly in return.

                  “When I was young,” he said. His voice was very deep but unexpectedly quiet, and Hermann had to lean forward to hear him over the gentle crackle of the campfire. “I was a mercenary once. Hired myself out to guard caravans, things of that sort. An Altmer expedition to explore Dwemer ruins approached me and a few others of the mercenary band I was with, asking for guards.”

                  “How many of you were there?”

                  “Twelve altogether. Me, four other guards, and the rest was the researchers. They were looking into a small ruin…nothing _terribly_ dangerous. That was the reassurance they kept giving. We signed on and went with them.”

                  Hermann leaned forward so far he was in danger of slipping off the log serving as his makeshift chair, listening avidly. Aleksis ate a bit of stew before continuing, looking contemplative.

                  “We were there three weeks. The first week was fine. Dullest I ever had to spend on a job, nothing but standing about keeping watch. Second week, there was an accident.”

                  “What happened?”

                  “A trap,” Aleksis said. “In some of their staircases, the Dwemer set rigged steps. Walk on the wrong one and it goes off.”

                  Hermann’s enthusiasm banked slightly; he had more knowledge about Dwemer defense mechanisms than he was personally comfortable with.

                  “What…kind of trap was it?”

                  “The kind that spins metal blades too fast for the eye to follow and can slice a man’s head off.”

                  A faint thread of revulsion squirmed in Hermann’s gut, and he looked down at his bowl of stew with a shrinking appetite.

                  “I see,” he said. “One of the researchers, or…?”

                  “Some fool of an assistant,” Aleksis said, sounding quietly indifferent to the unfortunate Altmer’s fate. “Should have looked where he was walking. After that things got odd around the camp. Excited.”

                  “ _Excited?_ ”

                  “Why rig a hall with traps made expressly to kill, if not to protect something valuable?”

                  “Oh,” Hermann said, feeling a bit foolish. Dwemer were a source of deep fascination for him; their machines, their magic of numbers and manipulation of the physical world around them…their strange, unexplained disappearance from Nirn. Dwemer were starkly logical, which Hermann appreciated deeply – even though it gave him the slightest bit of unease at times. It made sense that they would use the same cold efficiency to protect valuable secrets as they would with anything else. A thief in unwelcome areas was collateral damage in the face of preserving hidden knowledge.

                  “So after the…accident…what happened?”

                  “We went into the ruins proper, started making our way through it. Half the place had collapsed in on itself. Parts that were accessible were stuffed full of Dwemer junk. Scrap metal and moldering books, nothing of real interest,” he said. “Spent five days going deeper and deeper down. It seemed like a small place on the surface, but it dug in very deep roots.”

                  His lip curled in an uncomfortable snarl; Hermann dared to think Aleksis looked almost afraid of the memories. His stomach clenched in unwonted nervousness.

                  “We found a library on the fourth day,” he continued. “Almost everything was in ruins, but the Altmer set up camp and started combing through the place. We were delegated to perimeter guard duty again outside the room. They were working in there all through the night and into the next day when someone triggered another trap.”

                  Hermann leaned forward again, breathlessly nervous and excited.

                  “And?”

                  “The door to the library was solid metal,” Aleksis said. “It swung forward and locked. We could hear a hiss like steam…then the Altmer started shouting and screaming. We tried to get in but door wouldn’t give. There were vents lining the hallway we were in and they all seemed to open up at once. Steam so thick you couldn’t see the hand in front of your face.”

                  He paused to finish his food, and Hermann was in an agony of anxiety. Aleksis seemed to be quietly appreciating the hooks he had in his audience, giving Hermann a knowing look before leaning forward towards him.

                  “Things started dropping out of the vents,” he said. “Like great metal spiders. You could hear them talking to each other, buzzing like hornets’ nests. They’re powered by soul gems…the only way you could see them coming was the glow of the stones through the steam.

                  “There was nothing to be done for the Altmer. We ran for it. Two of the guards were cut down on the way…spiders leaped onto them from behind and started ripping them to shreds. We ran and hid and the wretched things were behind us the entire way. Three days awake and hiding…and it wasn’t just the spiders the Altmer woke.”

                  “What else could there have been?” Hermann asked; his voice cracked on the words. Aleksis looked down for a moment, a hand traveling unconsciously over several long, thick stripes of scar tissue on his arm. Hermann stared at the scars, eyes widening.

                  “They rolled about like pillbugs,” Aleksis said. “But then they cracked open, grew bodies like Mer with swords and crossbows. Broke my sword against their blades…nearly lost my arm alongside it. Me and one other guard managed to get out. Almost crawled out, honestly. Staggered towards Rorikstead and stayed laid up there for weeks.”

                  Aleksis allowed himself a small shiver.

                  “I decided to change careers after that.”

                  Hermann looked down at his pack again, easily picturing the strange object wrapped up so innocuously sitting on a dusty pedestal in that library…some Altmer picking it up and setting off a silent alarm within the ruins.

                  “That’s…quite a story, sir,” he said faintly. Aleksis simply nodded.

                  “Have a care with anything of _their_ make,” he said. “Nothing good ever comes of Dwemers’ works.”

                  “I…I have to disagree on that,” Hermann said. Aleksis’ eyes narrowed and he quickly amended, “On certain subjects! Only certain things! They had a certain…unfortunate habit of excessive force, but the same could be said for any civilized race protecting their most valued treasures. But they _were_ treasures. Dwemer discoveries have been essential to the very evolution and development of Nirn's civilizations.”

                  Aleksis simply shrugged, though his eyes fell towards the line of scars again.

                  “Perhaps.”

                  He offered no further argument on the issue and Hermann felt oddly disappointed; he rarely got to discuss anything about the Dwemer or his interests in them with anyone – other than the occasional indulgent, half-attentive sibling aside, anyway. Aleksis kept his opinions to himself and Sasha seemed to regard the entire thing only as an entertaining, disturbing war story; Hermann’s view of them was once again left singularly unchallenged, and it was rather unsatisfying.

 

 

* * *

 

 

                  “They’re setting up camp.”

                  Hermann looked up from his book, frowning up at Sasha.

                  “Pardon?”

                  “The giants,” Sasha said, looking disgusted. “The whole blasted tribe is digging in. It’ll take a full damned outfit of soldiers to root them out again, but that idiot Jarl out in Windhelm’s too busy playing at war to actually take care of his hold.”

                  “So what do we do?” Hermann asked. She pointed in a direction completely opposite the main road. Hermann’s heart sank. “We’re diverging paths, aren’t we.”

                  “Afraid so,” Sasha said. “There’s an inn about a day’s journey yonder, up by an iron mine. There’s usually a carriage there. You can take it to Winterhold.”

                  “What about you and Aleksis?”

                  She shrugged.

                  “Trade some of our catch for drinks and a bed under a solid roof for a few nights, then off to the next hunting ground.”

                  “No stronghold to head back to?”

                  Sasha gave a very impressive snort, ruffling the feathery quills on Hermann’s head. He would normally have balked at such a bold familiarity, but somehow Sasha didn’t offend with her affections.

                  “You’re kind to fret over us, but we’ve been at this for a while,” she said. “Strongholds are stifling. Same faces day in and day out, a fence walling you in from the rest of the world…that’s no way to live. I’m not some animal to be content in a cage.”

                  “I can hardly imagine you’d be satisfied with that kind of life,” Hermann said. Something in his tone made her pause, and when he looked up at her he was surprised to finding her watching him with concern.

                  “What cage did _you_ escape from, mage?” she asked. Hermann cleared his throat awkwardly.

                  “Not an escape, I’m afraid. Just a temporary reprieve.”

                  “It’s a big world,” Sasha said. “Easy to disappear.”

                  “I couldn’t do that.”

                  “Can’t, or don’t want to?”

                  “Both,” Hermann said, though he sounded briefly uncertain.

                  “Perhaps that will change.”

                  “I don’t think I’d be comfortable with it if it did,” he replied, giving a weak smile. “Not much constitution for change of any sort.”

                  Sasha watched him without speaking, her gaze pinning him for so long he began to feel uncomfortable. He looked down at his book again and wished privately that she would say something. She sighed, reaching over and tipping his head back with two fingers under his chin.

                  “I think you’ve got more steel in you than you realize,” she said. “Try to keep a little faith in yourself, mage. It’d do you good.”

                  Hermann stared at her in bewilderment, unsure what to say as she walked away from him and began to break down the camp.


	4. Chapter 4

                  The path to Kynesgrove rapidly deteriorated into something Hermann was very sure was used as a goat track. He knew without a doubt he would have lost his way halfway through the day; the path was faint and overgrown with dry grass that frequently obscured it. They were bordered on every side by hot springs and geysers that seemed to operate as though on clockwork, spewing plumes of water and steam every six minutes. Hermann made a game of timing them, quietly ticking away the seconds in his head and waiting for the impressive rumble that heralded an eruption. He had counted fifty four of them before their first break from walking, and he sat down gratefully, stretching his sore leg.

                  “You’re very quiet,” Sasha said, passing him a waterskin as she sat beside him. Aleksis had gone on to scout the path ahead, bow in hand. “Something on your mind, mage?”

                  “Not much,” Hermann admitted. “Just passing the time while we walk. It’s easy to daydream traveling in this place…no real distractions.”

                  “I’d be careful about that. Daydream your way down the wrong road and you’ll be meeting your gods sooner than expected.”

                  “Not much for gods, I’m afraid,” Hermann said lightly. Sasha chuckled, taking the waterskin back and drawing a long gulp from it. “More of the magic talking tree type.”

                  “Really? Didn’t think trees had much to comment on.”

                  “Mostly it’s just about squirrels and leaf fungus. What about you?”

                  “I pay thanks to Malacath when I’ve a mind to,” she said. “There’s little kindness in him, but he loves the Orsimer in his way.”

                  Hermann blinked in surprise; openly admitting allegiance to a Daedra was not something he was used to hearing, and it was deeply unexpected coming from someone like Sasha. She grinned wolfishly at him, flashing her sharp teeth.

                  “Don’t look so shocked, mage. You wouldn’t question a Khajiit’s interpretations of the Aedra to suit their faith, would you?”

                  “Well, no, but…”  
                  Sasha waved a hand flippantly.

                  “To each their own. I’m not going to carve your heart out and eat it in his name, you know.”

                  Hermann gave a spluttering laugh and Sasha clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder.

                  “There, you see? I am no different now that you know my faith, than when you didn’t know it a minute prior.”

                  Aleksis came back quietly, the dry grass rustling in his wake. He took hold of the horse’s reins and nodded towards the path.

                  “It’s clear,” he said. “We’re making good time.”

                  Sasha got up and stretched, cracking her neck and knuckles. She offered a hand to Hermann but he politely refused the help, using his staff to slowly hoist himself up. His leg buckled briefly and he caught himself, gritting his teeth at the sharp spasm of pain. It passed quickly and settled into its usual deep ache, so familiar that Hermann barely noticed the chronic presence of it anymore. Aleksis and Sasha walked ahead leading the heavily-laden horse, quietly alert to the world that Hermann began to tune out as he started his counting game again.

                  By the time they reached Kynesgrove the pain in his leg had begun to gnaw at his endurance, and he found himself gritting his teeth again with every step. They had taken several breaks over the day’s walk and Sasha had taken it upon herself to tell him about the area; she taught him about the native plants and animals, and on the top of a hill she had pointed out the mountain pass. When Hermann realized what she was showing him he had gaped, jaw dropping.

                  “They’re enormous,” he had said, rather dumbly. Aleksis had actually laughed at that.

                  “Giants typically are.”

                  “No, no…not them. I’ve seen _them._ But the _mammoths_ …”

                  It had been genuinely enchanting watching the beasts make their way across the road and up towards the mountains, shepherded by the giants that stood almost as tall as they did. Hermann had strained his ears to hear their thundering footsteps, taking quiet, almost childlike delight as he heard them trumpeting loudly to each other.

                  The memory of them had sustained and distracted him far better than his counting game, but now that the Braidwood Inn was in sight it took all of Hermann’s willpower to keep walking. He refused to complain – at best the Orcs would look at him with pity, and at worst would insist he ride the already burdened horse to let him rest. He clutched at his staff with a white-knuckled grip, head held up stiffly as pain coursed through his leg and up his spine in sick, hot jolts. Sasha gave him sidelong glances more than once that he stoically pretended not to notice.

                  Long walks were never welcome experiences, but Hermann bore some better than others. He was sure he would not have been in this much pain if they had been able to stay on the main, smooth and maintained road; paths wending through the wilds full of rocks, roots and unseen things to trip an unwary walker were far more challenging. He felt like an old man as he climbed the stairs to the inn’s front door, the pain crawling up his spine.

                  “Need a drink?” Sasha said. Hermann looked up at her and shared the unspoken acknowledgement of the pain he was in; he shrugged easily, pushing the door open.

                  “Yes, actually. Been a long day…a respite is welcome.”

                  The inn was brightly lit and a little too warm from the fire burning in the long, raised firepit in the middle of the room; the only people to be found were two Nords, a woman behind the counter and a man quietly sweeping off to one side. Both of them looked up as Aleksis approached; they looked uncommonly welcoming, the woman leaning forward on the counter.

                  “Aleksis,” she said. “What’ve you brought us this time?”

                  He put a brace of rabbits on the counter and the woman took them at once, pleased.

                  “There’s dinner for tonight. Mead for you and Sasha, dear?”

                  Hermann stifled a snicker at the unexpected endearment; Aleksis didn’t seem to mind it, even smiling slightly.

                  “Three, if you don’t mind.”

                  “Three,” the woman echoed, looking past Aleksis’ bulky frame towards the door. Hermann waved in awkward polite reflex. “Huh. Three it is, then. I’ll bring them over, dear. Go ahead and get settled.”

                  The Orcs took a seat by the fire in a far corner; Hermann sat beside them feeling quietly out of place. He leaned his staff against the wall and looked at the low-burning fire, watching the embers smoldering inside it. The woman brought over a loaf of bread and a plate loaded with cheese wedges as well, setting it down between them. Hermann took his mead with murmured thanks and uncorked it, sniffing at it curiously. He wasn’t much of a drinker and preferred wine to anything else, but the mead smelled interesting enough to warrant a try.

                  One small sip and several sharp coughs later, he decided maybe it would be better to stick to water.

                  Kynesgrove was not a bustling place by any means; the malachite mine had given rise to a small village of tents beside the inn and little else. The miners all crowded into the place at day’s end talking amongst themselves, several greeting the Orcs and sparing Hermann curious glances. The attention was uncomfortable but Hermann kept any complaints about it to himself, merely paying closer attention to his food whenever someone openly stared at him.

                  “So, mage,” Sasha said eventually. “This is where we’re going to be parting ways.”

                  Hermann felt his heart sink. He had gotten to like the Orcs’ company very much the past few days; it had conveniently not occurred to him that they had their own routines and plans, and that he had simply been a brief addition to them. Aleksis had excused himself from the table twenty minutes prior, going up to the bar and clearly negotiating a trade of goods with the Nord woman, buying supplies for the road.

                  “I see,” Hermann said. “Where are you off to?”

                  “No set destination, really. Wherever the road goes.”

                  “I really do envy that,” Hermann said softly. “It must be…very nice, being so free to go wherever you please.”

                  “It has many good points,” Sasha said. She knocked back the rest of her mead and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Though it comes with a lot of risk.”

                  “I’d imagine it would,” Hermann said dryly. “First day I was in Skyrim properly I was attacked by a pair of giant spiders.”

                  “Blast them to Oblivion and back?”

                  “The first one’s a melted splotch on the road. Second one had its face burnt off for its troubles.”

                  Sasha laughed, shoving Hermann’s shoulder good-naturedly; he tipped over from the force, having to catch himself before he could fall out of the chair. He righted himself, looking pleased with her obvious approval.

                  “Consider that a warm up for the rest of the charming wildlife around here,” Sasha said.

                  “I can hardly wait. Packs of wolves, bears…”

                  “Skeletons too.”

                  Hermann snorted, then paused and gave Sasha an uncertain look.

                  “Wait. I’m sorry…I’m sorry, you’re joking, yes? Skeletons? _Walking_ skeletons?”

                  Sasha nodded cheerfully.

                  “The old barrows and graveyards are nasty with ‘em,” she said. “You can always hear them coming by the creaking. It sets your teeth on edge.”

                  “Oh,” Hermann said. “Well then.”

                  “You’ll be fine,” Sasha said confidently. “A strong breeze can knock them apart. Just watch for the arrows.”

                  “The skeletons use bows and arrows?”

                  “Swords too.”

                  Hermann stared at her with narrowed eyes. Sasha looked back at him innocently.

                  “I think you’re lying to me.”        

                  “You say that _now,_ but when a skeleton gets the jump on you you’ll wish you’d listened to me. I’ve been walking Skyrim for years. I have seen _things._ ”

                  “Things more believable than the bones of the restless dead tottering about swinging swords and firing arrows at people, I hope.”

                  Sasha gave a grandly nonchalant shrug, holding her hands up.

                  “I _suppose_ I could tell you about the time I watched an alchemist eat an antler, but you don’t seem inclined to listen to the more interesting stories tonight.”

                  “I am going to bed,” Hermann said, laughing as he stood up. “Good _night,_ Sasha.”

                  She grabbed his arm as he walked past her, looking up at him.

                  “You really are going to be alright, you know,” she said. Hermann smiled quietly.

                  “Yes. I think I’ll manage.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

                  The Orcs had left early the next morning. Hermann got up to see them off, saying last thanks and goodbyes and trying not to think on the likely possibility that he was never going to see them again. He had assumed they wouldn’t be much for sentimental farewells after only knowing him a few days, but he was surprised with crushing hugs from them both.

They’d gone down the dirt road and disappeared far too quickly for Hermann’s liking. He sat on the inn’s porch on a rough-hewn bench, watching the breeze set the surrounding pines to swaying. The carriage wasn’t at the inn, having left for a four day journey and bound back by the end of the week. Hermann didn’t trust himself to wander into the woods and test his luck at finding people like Sasha and Aleksis again to help him; he’d paid to stay at the inn and had nothing to do now but sit and wait.

He watched the road for a while longer for lack of better things to do, but the quiet soon bored him. He went back inside and into his room, closing the door halfway and laying on the bed with his book. It had been read so many times Hermann had had to repair it at least three times, replacing the cracked spine and mending the leather binding, making sure pages didn’t simply shed out of the thing like falling leaves. He read quietly through the day, only leaving his room to take a small dinner alone. With an uncomfortable feeling he realized he was lonely without the Orcs’ company and wished honestly for a moment that he hadn’t met them at all; the lack of their presence was more upsetting than he could have anticipated.

The days passed in a dull, unchanging blur. The miners filtered in and out of the inn at all hours, prompting Hermann to stay in his room and out of sight. He thought about writing letters to his family but immediately dismissed the idea; he could only imagine his sister Karla would really care about the message, but with the months’ worth of travel time for the letter to make it to Blackmarsh he might as well just sit down and tell her instead when he returned home.

 He looked over at his pack, frowning at it as though it had personally insulted him. He got up and rooted around inside it, pulling the oilskin package out and unwrapping it. The Dwemer artifact gleamed inside as though it had been newly made; an orb embedded with movable bands inscribed in silver, the runes or letters or _whatever_ they were completely untranslatable. Hermann sat again on the edge of the bed and played with the bands restlessly; several spots on the orb were marked with chevrons, clicking the bands into place with a specific rune between them. He clicked runes between the chevrons over and over, but as always the combinations he experimented with had no response.

The orb wasn’t very big, and was far heavier than expected. It was _meant_ to unlock and open…it was condensed into itself, whatever mysteries it was hiding permanently dormant. Hermann rolled it from one hand to the other, staring past it at the well-worn floor boards. The College was full of experts in magic lore both current and obscure; the letter had asked specifically for the thing in _‘matters of research endeavoring and daring’_. Hermann had thought the letter was overselling the importance of the request by a mile or two, but he supposed anyone passionate enough about their subjects of study could be allowed to be overdramatic.

“What _are_ you?” he said softly, studying the orb. The most striking thing about it was not the strange runes or cleverly-made bands that slid so smoothly; it was that the metal did not reflect. It was shined to a high gloss and light played beautifully across its unflawed surface, but the mirror-like quality one would expect from the metal was simply absent. Hermann held it up at eyelevel and tried to find some hint of his face or the room, or even a shadow cast over it. It stayed stubbornly, strangely untouched.

Hermann sighed and packed the orb away into its oilskin again, tying it up very securely and stowing it at the bottom of his pack, hiding it beneath a spare shirt.


	5. Chapter 5

It was raining and miserable the day Hermann left the inn. He supposed he could be poetic about it and think the weather matched the downward spiral of his mood, but keeping up the vague sense of feeling sorry for himself had little appeal. To so badly miss two people he had only known a handful of days frustrated him, but he had to admit to himself having friends in such a vast, lonely place had been a comfort, especially now that he was going further into parts unknown.

 He sat wrapped up in his cloak and cursed himself again for the lack of a hood as the rain drizzled sullenly on him, creeping down his neck and soaking into his clothes. The ride was going to be a long and dull slog; the carriage driver had told him it would take a full week to get halfway into the Pale.

“And halfway is as far as I go,” he’d said flatly when Hermann tried to protest. “Almost not worth it to take you that far, either.”

The driver’s cool attitude had dragged Hermann’s mood further into the mud, and he sat hunched over and brooding as the carriage began its bumpy, uncomfortable journey out from Kynesgrove. There was a thin scattering of birdsong and he listened, trying to pick out which one was which – the thin, burbling notes of a rock warbler, the deeper pitching cries of a pine thrush…

The carriage hit a hole in the road and the impact was jarring, setting Hermann’s teeth on edge. He shifted on the uncomfortable wooden bench and tried to find a way to sit that didn’t stiffen his back and send streaks of hot pain down his leg, but no matter how he twisted or fidgeted there was no relief.

“Everything alright back there?” the driver asked dryly, not bothering to look over his shoulder. Hermann stopped fidgeting at once.

“Fine, thank you.”

The morning passed slowly into a dull, cool afternoon. Hermann found himself frequently nodding off despite his discomfort, the sheer dull silence of the road lulling him to sleep. There was a scattering of other travelers through the day- farmers and hunters mostly, and an armored Imperial courier on a lanky horse that sped past them, kicking up mud in its wake. The driver had muttered sourly in some halfhearted complaint as the courier raced by; Hermann heard the words ‘Stormcloak’ and ‘Imperial lapdogs’, but didn’t have much interest in it.

He knew the basics of the troubles between Skyrim and the Empire, and kept himself fully neutral in the situation. He quietly disliked the Aldmeri Dominion as much as anyone with any common sense, but there was little to be done about them; they were the slow, creeping power taking control in the Empire inch by inch, and the day the tensions between the Empire proper and the Dominion exploded was one he did not look forward to. The Stormcloak rabble-rousing seemed petty and small compared to that.

The carriage wheel hit another divot in the road and Hermann pitched forward, scrabbling to keep himself from being bumped off the bench entirely. The road seemed much more pleasant to travel when it was being _walked_ on. Hermann looked regretfully down at his leg, lips pursing. No matter what he did the travel would be painful and frustrating. How he’d kept pace with the Orcs for so long he couldn’t quite figure out, now that he thought back on it; perhaps a combination of his own stubbornness and staunch refusal to complain. He wondered how he would manage once the driver dumped him off into the Pale…the prospect of being alone and left to fend for himself all over again was suddenly a very daunting one.

“Excuse me?”

The driver grunted, turning his head towards Hermann without taking his eyes from the road.

“Where is it exactly we’re going?”

“Nightgate Inn.”

The driver didn’t elaborate, his tone clipped as though Hermann was irritating him for daring to ask. Hermann scowled at the back of the driver’s head and said nothing more. The soft whickering of the horse and creak of the wooden wheels filled the silence around them, and Hermann had nearly nodded off again when something struck him as odd.

It was _silent._

He slowly sat up, casting a wary look around. The wind was a soft susurrus through the trees but nothing else seemed to move in the forest around them. Hermann shouldered his pack for safety’s sake, picking up his staff and holding it over his lap. The driver was apparently unperturbed by the quiet and Hermann wondered if it would be worth the passive-aggressive attitude to ask him about it. He wavered for a moment, then scooted over across the bench and tapped the driver on the shoulder. The man jumped at the touch, looking over at Hermann again with a scowl.

“Yes?”

“It’s gone quiet,” Hermann said in an undertone, feeling foolish as the driver stared at him. “There’s…is that normal? There’s no birds.”

The driver’s expression fell. He glanced around and his hands tightened on the reins.

“Might be nothing,” he said, more amicable now that there was a shared sense of paranoia between them. “Might be a bear or sabre cat about to spook them off.”

Hermann’s fingers drummed against his staff as he sat back, the pack pressing uncomfortably against his spine. Sasha had pointed out a distant sabre cat to him during their hike to Kynesgrove, describing the power of their jaws with slightly disturbing enthusiasm. The last thing he wanted to deal with was getting jumped by an overgrown cat only a week after dealing with equally overgrown spiders. He wished very briefly that Sasha and Aleksis were with him; a little smothering sense of dread and encroaching silence didn’t seem like it would bother them overmuch. But while he was indulging in wishful thinking he supposed he could just _wish_ to be in Winterhold, rather than endure Skyrim’s unpleasant, unsafe roads any more than he had to.

“Should we turn back?” he muttered to the driver. The man’s shoulders set in rigid stubbornness and he shook his head.

“I’ve been driving these parts for years,” he said. “Not too much I can’t handle or avoid.”

“Might be easier to get on with the _avoiding_ by heading back to Kynesgrove.”

The driver glanced over at Hermann again with a wry expression.

“Rest easy, lizard. I’ll not let anything get to you.”

Hermann made a politely disbelieving sound, but didn’t protest further.

 

\--

 

There was no choice but to stop for the night in the woods. The horse was enormous and hardy, but it wasn’t tireless. Hermann himself felt like his body were going to break apart at the joints if he had to endure one more bump on the road, and the driver was hunched over and favoring one shoulder with frequent soft winces.

There was a short, unspoken debate about the wisdom of building a fire. Hermann had no issue dealing with a cold dinner and colder night’s sleep – Hist knew he hadn’t been properly warm since halfway over the Sea of Ghosts. The driver was wavering, caught between wanting the security and warmth of the fire against what prying eyes it might attract. The silence had lifted after a tense, unpleasant hour that afternoon, but the unease it caused lingered.

The debate was settled as the driver began clearing a small space for a fire, gathering deadfall for fuel. Hermann stretched and hobbled from one end of the camp to the other, trying to ease some of the cramping in his leg.

“Surely the ride wasn’t so crippling,” the driver said. Hermann grunted.

“I don’t do well with uneven roads even when riding, it appears. It won’t be an issue if we have to flee for our lives.”

“Thank the gods for small favors.”

            They sat by the fire as night fell, brooding over their dinners and trying not to be overly obvious as they glanced around the trees, checking frequently for things that could be watching. Hermann quietly damned the pride of Nords and carriage drivers for insisting to carry on despite the lingering air of _not quite right_ , and damned himself too for needing to take the carriage at all. He should have kept going with Sasha and Aleksis; their path was meandering and slow, but it was safe. He missed them. Hist forgive him, he was _lonely_ without them.

            There was a sound of snapping twigs somewhere far to the left of the camp. Hermann and the driver both looked towards it, eyes straining in the gloaming; a hare froze as it caught sight of them, nose twitching before it bolted somewhere further into the wood.

            “Raw as trapped hares ourselves,” the driver muttered. “I’ll be glad for daybreak.”

            “Should we get going earlier than that, maybe?” Hermann asked him, voice soft. He found he didn’t want to speak too loudly and couldn’t quite figure why.

            “Things own the roads in the dark hours I wouldn’t want to cross, not even if I were a warrior,” the driver replied. “Most will leave well enough alone if you keep yourself out of their way.”

            “Only most?”

            “Some things go _looking_ for trouble, if you follow me.”

            “I follow,” Hermann said dully, wrapping his cloak a bit tighter around himself and casting another wary look around the camp. “I do hope you won’t mind a hearty _‘I told you we should have turned around’_ if we run into something unpleasant.”

            “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve had to eat my words.”

            “That tends to be a learning experience after the first time. Any reason it didn’t take?”

            The driver shrugged and Hermann stared at the fire in futile annoyance. The horse was the only one that didn’t seem particularly worried about anything. It had been fed and watered, unhitched from the carriage, and seemed perfectly happy with abusing the local grass and wildflower population. Hermann fell asleep to the sound of it grazing through the dragon’s tongue and mountain flowers, thinking as he dozed off that animals were _far_ more clever than people gave them credit for and it wasn’t worried at all, surely it would be able to scent out something like a bear or sabre cat or…

            --

 

            There was a scream in the night.

            Hermann was up and off his bedroll before he was even properly awake, heart pounding and his staff clutched in front of him with no memory of even grabbing hold of it. The driver had nearly pitched forward into the campfire in shock; he’d taken the first watch and hadn’t been at it very long, the moons hardly moved from their positions low in the sky. They looked at each other with very wide eyes.

            “Foxes scream,” the driver said. “Uncanny-like.”

            “That was _not_ a fox.”

            Hermann swallowed hard, taking a few cautious steps towards the edge of their camp. The scream had been an almost strangled sound, as though someone was fighting to keep the screamer from making too much noise. Hermann was unsure how close it had been to their camp, the trees twisting and muffling sound of it.

            “We’re going,” the driver said abruptly. He kicked dirt onto the fire and went to his horse, working as quick as he could to get it hitched again. Hermann stared at him; the driver glanced back at him once, expression set.

            “No. I’m no warrior and you’re half lame. We’re _leaving._ ”

            “Someone is in _trouble._ ”

            “Someone usually is,” the driver snapped. “I suggest you get in the carriage. Sticking your snout where it’s not welcome is a good way to get yourself killed.”

            “You’re truly just going to trundle off as though there’s not someone screaming for help?” Hermann hissed, disgusted. The driver stared at him piercingly, jaw working.

            “There are things in the night that go _looking_ for _trouble,_ ” he said. “You really want to help them find it?”

            Hermann felt a cold, heavy knot form in his chest. The scream had been undeniably pained…but what if the driver was right, and it was a trap? What then? He despised the man for wanting to flee, and himself for hesitating. They stood opposite each other, Hermann at the edge of the camp, the driver by his horse and carriage.

            “If I go, are you going to leave without me?”

            “No use waiting on a fool.”

            Hermann took several deep breaths and turned on his heel.

            “Fine.”

            His resolve faltered after the first few steps. The driver was cursing a blue streak but there were no footsteps following after Hermann, no abrupt change of heart to help. Hermann pushed through a stand of pine saplings and into the deeper forest and realized he had just made a very stupid decision. It was a little after midnight and almost impossible to see. Masser and Secunda were both hidden by thick clouds, the moonlight that managed to shine through weak and useless. Hermann cupped a hand to his mouth and whispered the intention of light; a bead of it welled in his palm and grew to the size of a walnut, and he tossed it into the air. The mage-light hung there for a moment and brightened with a burst of energy, hovering about his head and following faithfully as he started to walk again.

            He realized the woods were silent again. Not a sound of night birds or insects could be heard anywhere. He suspected the scream would have spooked the animals off for a moment or two, but this prolonged silence troubled him deeply. He whispered a soft command and the mage-light dimmed accordingly, giving him enough light to walk by without worrying about tripping, but no more. He hunched over and stepped with deliberate slowness, trying to avoid the litter of dried leaves and sticks that would give away his approach.

            There was no telling how close the scream had been, but Hermann had had a general sense of what direction it came from. He kept on straight, trying not to think on the driver’s adamant refusal to help and willingness to leave Hermann behind. He supposed he couldn’t fault the man, really. It was a foolish thing he was doing – good, noble, and _completely_ foolish. Hell, it passed by foolish and straight out into idiotic. Tramping around into the forest in the dead of night, following a scream that could well be luring him to gods’ knew what end.

            Hermann’s steps faltered again and he paused, his mage-light floating about his head like a firefly. He watched it unhappily, reaching up and trailing his fingers through the lingering streaks of light it left behind it. Mage-lights produced no heat and weren’t exactly alive, but it felt good to have at least something to keep him company.

            “I’ve gone and dug my grave,” he muttered. “Suppose I better get on and lay in it now, shouldn’t I?”

            The mage-light bobbed and weaved slowly through the air, providing no reassurances. Hermann squared his shoulders and walked on, pushing deeper into the forest.

            “I shouldn’t be here,” he said, voice hardly above a whisper. It felt better to speak aloud, even if it was only to himself. The silence seemed less oppressive. “Not here…not at this _moment,_ I should say. No…no, I don’t belong in Skyrim by any means. I just wanted to get out from Blackmarsh so badly. It’s not a bad place, though. Perish the thought. Grew up there and…”

            He paused, ears straining for a hint of screaming. There were none, so he took up his slow ambling pace again, the butt of his staff thumping dully against the leaf and needle-carpeted ground.          

            “It has its low points...rough parts all full of rot and mud. But the part I grew up in was very lovely. By Argonian standards, at least.”

            His rambling was annoying him a little bit, but Hermann couldn’t find anything much worth saying. He clicked his teeth and licked his lips in nervousness as the silence fell around him again like the silken threads of a spider web, trapping him slowly inside it. He cleared his throat sharply and started to sing; Sasha had sung it one night while she made dinner, timing the beat of song to the swipes of her knife as she cleaned and jointed a hare.

 

_Oh, ‘cross the fields and forests green_

_Past the rivers cold and clean_

_Through the mountains shall I go_

_To look for thee, my love, for thee_

_Among the valleys and tundra cold_

_Into the prairies with grasses gold_

_To furthest places thou once were_

_And might have gone again…_

His memory failed and he simply hummed the rest of the song, throwing in the occasional ‘ _my love’_ here and there to break up the monotony. He wasn’t much of a musician – but then again, Sasha hadn’t been either. Somewhere to his right there came a faint sound of crickets. Hermann’s half-muttered song tapered off and he felt oddly relieved to hear them; crickets weren’t typically reassuring presences, but when one was wandering around the woods singing to stave off a panic attack, they worked with what they had.

            “All still here, then,” he murmured. “So what is it that keeps scaring you silent?”

            There was a strange, far-off popping sound. Hermann fell quiet and leaned forward, eyes narrowing as he tried to pick it out from the haze of uneasy cricket song. Popping...like green, unseasoned wood being put on a fire to burn. He hurried through the trees, straining to hear it. He ignored the roots that seemed to writhe up from the soil to trip him, eyes fixed on a far point of orange light.

            The smoke drifted through the trees. The smell of it clung thickly to his throat and he didn’t dare cough; there were figures moving about the fire in shadow, and he doubted any of them would be kindly disposed towards him. The popping and cracking of green wood on the fire grew louder, and for some reason the sound of it sent a chill down Hermann’s spine. Those people were burning something they ought not to, and were doing things they _shouldn’t._

            He realized the mage-light was still hovering around him. He grabbed it quickly and it extinguished in a puff of light, dissipating and leaving a faint glowing residue on his hand that slowly faded. No one seemed to have noticed the mage-light by the fire. He felt a cold uneasiness staring at it; it billowed thick smoke and the flames seemed dirty, the color tarnished.

            He didn’t want to get any closer. Whoever those people were, there was something so entirely _wrong_ about them that even the idea of approaching was almost sickening. He sheltered briefly behind a pine tree and stared at one of them, squinting at the silhouette as it walked around the fire. It was vaguely female and hunched over like a crone, head bobbing up and down. She had a long beaky nose and hair hung lank around her face, and when she raised a hand in some absent gesture Hermann saw she had long, bony fingers that tapered to points, and her arms were feathered.

            What in Nirn walked like a human or Mer, but had _feathers?_ Hermann’s own feathers hardly counted, sitting on his head and constantly getting ruffled and in the way. Besides, it wasn’t as though they sprouted from his arms as well, in some mockery of wings…

            The feathered thing gestured again and light pooled in its hand- raw power that Hermann could feel even from his distant hiding place behind the pine, feeling as though dirty breath had been coughed across his face. He bared his teeth in revulsion at the sense of it. How the crone could bear to be wielding it, he didn’t know. He backed away a step and his scales were itching as though it was burning him, responding to the magic in him and trying to twist it into the same hideous perversion as itself-

            He backed up another step and stepped on a branch.

            Under any other circumstance it wouldn’t have been of much note at all. But in this moment, Hermann was sure the dry crack of the branch breaking under his foot was as loud as a roll of thunder. The foul raw magic had sputtered out and he wept from the relief of its absence, even as fear wormed through him at the rasping sound of the crone’s voice.

            “ _Someone is here.”_

Hermann stumbled back, all thought of stealth and sneaking forgotten. He had to get away. Had to flee, to hide, to scour his body and mind from the memory and touch of whatever it was these creatures wielded so freely. He whipped around and began to run, his gait lurching. He felt in the dark with his staff like a blind man to avoid rocks and roots but they kept springing up in his path. Behind him there were angry voices calling to each other, hissing out into the darkness.

            No…no, not to each other. They were calling to _him._ The voices were thick with intent, the air sticky and fouled with the magic they were trying to catch him with. Hermann spat out a spell in response, anything to drown them out – his breath frosted in the air and fell to the earth as snow, spreading hoarfrost. His leg was in agony and he couldn’t run anymore; the pursuers were gaining on him, the magic crawling over him and by the Hist’s _mercy,_ the touch of it was so sickening he could hardly breathe-!

            Hermann’s legs buckled and he fell in a swoon, his staff clattering to the ground. He curled into a senseless ball and pressed his hands against his ears, trying to drown the voices out. Their owners slithered out from the shadows and circled around him; he looked up at them, mouth opening to beg them to be quiet but his own voice had fled.

            “Now here’s an odd thing,” said the first.

            “All alone?” said the second.

            “Come to pry into our business,” said the third.

            Their voices were diseased, full of the same awful power the crone had wielded. Hermann made a strange _chkk-chkk-chkk,_ his words turning into a struggling cough as he tried again to plead for quiet. The three figures were robed and cloaked, their faces inexpressive. He stared at them as one summoned a mage-light of their own, delirious and confused as they bent down to examine him.

            They wore horned wooden masks to hide their faces, but the masks _were_ faces.

            “What do you think?” said the second.

            “That we needn’t hunt for tribute tomorrow,” said the first. They looked to the third, who was tapping a slender white finger against the lips of its mask. “What do you think?”

            The third knelt down beside Hermann, running that milk-white hand over his head. It was a gesture that held no comfort or kindness; through the fever the magic had poisoned him with, Hermann sensed a will that would bind him, tether him to itself and twist him.

            “I think I shall keep him,” said the third. She –for the voice was soft and undeniably feminine – looked down at him. Her eyes glimmered with fell light behind the beautiful mask. “What do _you_ think?”

            The magic clogging his mouth cleared and Hermann coughed. He stared at her and she stared back; she didn’t blink. Not once did she blink, even as the silence between them stretched from seconds to minutes. Perhaps to hours – time stopped and slid away and all Hermann could see was the magic burning through the woman, flickering in her eyes and Hist forgive him he couldn’t look _away_.

            “It was a spriggan,” he said finally, stumbling over the words. “You’ve killed a _spriggan_. You’re wearing her _face.”_

The eyes glimmered more brightly behind the dead spriggan’s face, and the woman – the _witch –_ leaned very close.

            “And so imagine what it is I’m going to do to _you.”_


	6. Chapter 6

            The first thing Hermann was aware of was the wool blanket against his face. It was damp and smelled like musty feathers; he pulled it away with a confused sound, blinking in the watery light of morning. His head ached and he couldn’t remember why. He closed his eyes again and curled up into a tight ball on his side, arms hugged around himself for warmth, trying to remember why he felt so sick. Had he been drinking? No, surely not…he’d been on the road. Traveling to…damn it, he could hardly think. The dirty feather smell was turning his stomach and he shoved the blanket further away, shivering as he lay on the pine needle-littered ground…

            Wait…

            No.

           This wasn’t right.

          Where was his bedroll? Where was the carriage driver? Hermann opened his eyes again and slowly raised his head, trying to ignore how much the effort exhausted him. He stared for a moment and icy fear prickled through him; he reached a shaking hand out, grabbing at the rough wooden bars of a cage door. It looked simple enough, thick branches lashed together with thongs of uncured leather, but it resisted all his weak attempts to move it. He let go of the door and pushed himself up to sit; it was a small comfort that he hadn’t been bound, at least.

          The air was stained with smoke and the smell of it added to Hermann’s growing nausea. He remembered bits and pieces of a fire in the night, the sound of green wood twisting and popping in flames. His mouth went dry as he recalled just who had _built_ that fire…he crawled towards the cage door and peered out past the bars. There were three tents in a row behind a still-smoldering fire pit, and off to the right under a canopy of animal skins was something Hermann could only think of as a _nest._ Something slept in it, its head tucked under one wing – or arm? The creature was distorted, its body mutated into something half human, half bird.

         Hermann swallowed hard, his breath rasping in his dried-out throat. A hagraven. It was a _hagraven_ ….and Hermann had happened upon it and its coven. His gaze travelled towards the fire pit. There was a strangely twisted log sitting half-burnt in the ashes; he studied it for a long moment, and realized with a sickened jolt that it was the body of a spriggan. Her limbs were curled up on themselves, clawed hands clutching at the air. There was a hole in the middle of her chest and Hermann puzzled over it; her ribs had been broken and pulled away, and there was a deep concave wound inside…something had sat there, and the witches had pulled it out.

       “Your taproot,” he murmured. His voice was very hoarse. “They took your heart out.”

        He put a hand to his own chest. His heart was still on the inside as far as he could tell- thank the Hist for small favors. There was a cold, worming panic trying to build in him but he shunted it firmly to the side. Panicking was not going to do him any good. He was trapped, but there had to be a way to get loose and escape. His staff was gone and he was far too hungry and tired to cast any kind of helpful spell, but they hadn’t bound him…maybe he could wait until they opened the cage’s door and then make a break for it.

        The idea made him snort with dour amusement. Right. He was just going to run off and _escape._

       “Go sticking your snout where it doesn’t belong,” he said to himself dryly. “Suppose he’ll never get to gloat over such a beautiful _‘I told you so’._ ”

       He had rushed headlong to help and all he had done was get himself captured. Insult to injury was the realization that even if he _had_ arrived in time to stop the spriggan’s murder, she probably would have just turned around and gutted him. Hermann was torn between wanting to laugh and bury his face in his hands; he did neither, simply sitting there and watching the smoke drift off the spriggan’s corpse.  The creatures were beautiful and highly dangerous; nature spirits that had no patience for the encroaching of men, Mer and the beast races. Her claws, blackened and split by the fire, were nearly as long as Hermann’s forearm. He hoped bitterly she had gotten a few good swipes in before the witches had killed her.

       A quick glance back towards the hagraven’s nest answered where the spriggan’s taproot had gone – it hung like a ghastly green lantern in one corner of the canopy, swinging in the slight breeze. Hermann’s hand clutched at his chest again and he couldn’t help but imagine his own heart swinging next to it.

      “I am not going to panic,” he whispered to himself, not believing himself for an instant. “I am _not._ ”

      He crawled back to the furthest corner of his cage and curled up there, pulling his cloak around himself. The witches woke by midmorning. Hermann didn’t know which one of them had captured him; they had shucked their masks, walking about barefaced and scowling in the strengthening sunlight. Their gaze strayed to him often and he tried not to acknowledge them. One of them had mentioned something about _tribute_ – tribute to what, he wondered. Daedra, maybe? He swallowed a bitter little laugh, wondering if they had any truck with Malacath. Maybe his time with Sasha and Aleksis would recommend him for a painless death.

     The cage door creaked open a handbreadth, and one of the witches pushed in a waterskin and bread.

     “Eat.”

     “No.”

     The refusal escaped before Hermann even realized he was speaking. The witch stared blankly at him and he sat up a little straighter, nostrils flaring.

     “You’re hungry.”

     “I’d rather starve.”

     “You think you’ll last long enough to starve?”

      She spoke so casually it made Hermann feel sick. She wasn’t gloating over his capture, didn’t care that she and her friends had caged him like an animal. He stared at her; she didn’t blink, and there were twin flickers of pale fire in her eyes. She smelled strange – a metallic, biting odor, the same smell air took on after a lightning strike. It hung over her like a shroud. He realized he didn’t want to touch anything she had handled, his lips curling over his teeth in reflexive disgust.

      “I am not _hungry._ ”

      They regarded each other for a moment, and then the witch shrugged and turned away.

      “You’re not being brave, you know.”

      Hermann watched her retreat back to the other side of the camp. They ignored him the rest of the day, going about their business; the hagraven never stirred from her nest, head tucked firmly under her wing. Sometimes it grew so quiet Hermann could hear the wet rattle of her breathing. In those stretches of silence Hermann realized there was no birdsong, no droning of insects – there was one mystery solved, at least. The coven’s inimical presence was clearly driving everything off. Killing off the spriggans had to be damaging the forest terribly.

     He frowned, puzzled. The carriage had been hours away from this miserable spot when Hermann had first noticed the cloaking silence - it meant there was either more than one coven wandering around, or this one had done serious damage in several different spots. He thought of the untempered power the hagraven had manipulated so easily and shuddered. The creatures were notorious for their almost zealous hatred of the natural world, corrupting it to their own ends. They were capable of incredible things, Hermann admitted – but the price was far too high.

    It was almost sundown before the witches paid him any attention again. The trio were going off together into the woods cloaked and hooded, one bearing black ropes and another with a dagger whose blade looked strangely oily and wet. They passed right by Hermann’s cage and he felt no shame in recoiling from them, briefly frightened they would drag him out and tie him up to be slaughtered like a pig at market. They all looked at him as they left the camp, their spriggan-face masks fixed in place. Seeing the dead light of their eyes behind the beautiful wooden faces made him sick all over again.

   “Gone for a while,” said the first.

   “But back soon,” added the second.

    “With company,” finished the third. The laugh in her voice repulsed Hermann. He refused to answer them, arms crossing tightly over his chest and staring hard at the ground. The metallic stench of them lingered and he tried not to breathe in the smell of it, closing his eyes and huddling against the wall of his cage.

     The hagraven stirred in her nest.

     Hermann went stiff, not daring to look over at the creature; there was a rustling of fabric and the padding of bare feet on clean swept dirt, and he tried to make himself small. No. No, go _away,_ don’t let it get near him, don’t let it see him –

The hagraven stood outside the cage, her breath wheezing thinly. She shook the door once, then again when Hermann didn’t react. He looked over at her slowly, flinching back to see her horrible face so close. She had something clutched in one hand and she held it up for him to see.

“This thing,” she said. Her voice creaked and crackled like dry bones. “This thing. What is it?”

It was the Dwemer orb. He stared at it, weighing his options. If she thought he knew anything useful about it she would probably let him live longer – but he had no idea how long he could fake any knowledge of the blasted thing. The metal was reacting strangely to her touch. The glossy brilliance of it was dulling, as though breath was clouding over the surface.

“A treasure,” he said. The hagraven shook the orb close to her ear.

“Liar.”

“It’s true.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “Hiding inside itself.”

She clicked the embedded rings into aimless patterns for a moment. Hermann hated to see her pawing at it, her touch polluting the bright metal. He could smell the same odor of lightning on her, far stronger than the witches, and her eyes were fearsomely bright with purer power than they had.

“Why are you here?” the hagraven asked. Hermann gave her a sour look.

“Because your friends wanted to keep me.”

“No. Here. Why are you _here.”_

She rattled the cage door again when Hermann refused to answer. He ground his teeth, spitting out the words.

“Because I heard you killing someone.”

The hagraven made a pleased sound, looking over her shoulder at the burnt spriggan. Her lips curled back from her thin, pointed teeth in something trying to be a smile.

“This was her grove. Ours, now. I pulled her heart from her. Her power, mine.”

“Why?” Hermann asked. The hagraven tilted her head to one side, studying him keenly.

“Because I can,” she replied. “Because I am stronger because of it.”

“But there’s no purpose to it. All that power and you do nothing with it.”

“And yet I have it. Others do not. It’s mine. I found it. I keep it. It’s mine.”

“Like you have me?” Hermann asked softly. “What point is there to keeping me here?”

“Because we found you. Ours now. Little mageling.”

She leaned close to the cage door, so close Hermann imagined he could smell the reek of her breath. She didn’t blink and he found himself unable to look away from her blank, oily black eyes.

“Little mageling in the woods with its little brass egg. Going to crack you both and spill you out. Which cracks first, egg or lizard?”

She nodded down towards the bread and water he had refused to touch, lips pulling back further in a rictus grin.

“Eat. No death in your future yet. No laying you open and pulling out your heart. No boiling your blood and bones. Eat, mageling. Ours now.”

Hermann’s vision blurred with angry tears, distorting the hagraven’s ugly face even further. He leaned forward and his words were constricted, voice thick with loathing.

“I do not _belong_ to you.”

The hagraven put the orb away into the deerskin pouch at her waist and walked off, still smiling. Hermann picked up the bread and tore it apart, throwing the scraps aside. He buried his head in his arms, and waited until the hagraven was well away from the cage before he let himself weep.

 

* * *

 

 

           “Wretched thing!”

           “Squealing sapling!”

           “Catch her legs before she bucks again!”

            The witches were dragging something behind them. It shrieked furiously, struggling against the black ropes that bound it like a cocoon; Hermann crawled to the cage door again and watched, aghast as he saw they had caught another spriggan. Her face was expressionless but Hermann could see the terror and rage in every line of her body. The witches pulled her to the fire pit and she rolled onto her side, staring straight at him. She glowed internally with vivid green light, like leaves shot through with sunlight.

            Hermann felt pinned by her gaze, grieving. They were going to do it again. They were going to murder this creature right in front of him, rip out her taproot and throw her body onto the fire like kindling.

            “No,” he rasped. One of the witches glanced at him and her eyes flickered with malicious amusement.

            “Lizards like you are fond of trees,” she said. “Aren’t you? Going to weep when we cut up her heartwood?”

            “Please. _Please._ You don’t have to do this. Your mistress, she has something more valuable. Much more valuable.”

            The witch snorted.

            “Lying little lizard. Scared it’s going to be your heart next, trying to bargain. Weep, weep, _weep_. You don’t have to do this, just let me go. Heard it all a thousand times before, little lizard.”

            “I’m not lying! Ask her, ask her about the thing I had in my pack,” he said quickly. “She’s got it now. It’s powerful, ancient! Dwemer made it!”

            That caught her attention. The witch looked to her fellows; they were both in conversation with the hagraven, feeding branches into the fire pit and polishing the oily-bladed dagger. The witch crept towards the cage, leaning close to the door.

            “Dwemer deal in logic, not magic,” she said. Her eyes were shadowed behind the mask, only the twin points of light visible. “Unwieldy. Dangerous.”

            “No more dangerous than the thing you’ve got trussed by the fire,” Hermann whispered. “It was my….it was my duty to _protect_ that artifact. I was charged with its safekeeping.”

            “Didn’t do that very well.”

            “No, I didn’t. But it is _powerful._ More powerful than you can imagine.”

            “It’s Morwenna’s,“ the witch muttered. “Said it yourself, lizard. She’s got it.”

            “But think of what you could do if _you_ had it. Spare the spriggan. Turn it loose, mistress. There’s no use for it now.”

            “Mistress?” the witch asked softly. Hermann cursed himself for overplaying his part, but the witch leaned closer, fingers sticking through the bars and coaxing Hermann over as though she was calling a dog. He seethed silently but acquiesced to it, leaning his head down. She petted him, her touch sending unpleasant prickles over his scales as though he was being stung by nettles.

            “Mine,” she said. “It was Haelga that wanted you, but I think _I’ll_ keep you. Such sweet brown eyes you have.”

            “Thank you,” Hermann said, trying to sound humble. “Please, mistress. Let it go. “

            “How do I get the Dwemer toy? Tell me that, and I’ll cut her bonds.”

            “The pouch about her waist, mistress. See how low it hangs? She carries it with her.”

            “No easy task, then,” the witch muttered sourly.

            “Be clever,” Hermann whispered. “Be bold. A distraction, mistress. It’s her that does the cutting, isn’t it? When a spriggan’s on the block, it’s Morwenna that kills them?”

            “It is…”

            “Mmh. Perhaps this one’s bonds might _slip_ before the axe falls?”

            The witch glanced back at the still-struggling spriggan. Hermann’s hopes, so briefly raised, fell flat again as she turned to glare fiercely at him.

            “Soft spot for the saplings, haven’t you?” she asked, voice hard. “Sweet words from a poisoned tongue. You’d see me split and gutted, _wouldn’t_ you?”

            “No! No, I-”

            The witch stormed away from the cage, giving the spriggan a vicious kick for spite’s sake as she passed. Hermann hissed out several bitter curses, eyes smarting with tears again. The spriggan was still watching him and he looked back miserably.

            “I’m sorry,” he said. He doubted she even understood what he was saying, but he couldn’t just let her lie there thinking he hadn’t tried to help her. “I’m so sorry. I can’t…I’m _sorry._ ”

            The spriggan made a creaking sound, body going slack in defeat and her head resting against the ground. One of the graceful antlers that curved from her temples had been snapped off, and pale green sap leaked from the wound like blood. The black ropes that bound her were clearly enchanted; normal ropes would have been ripped off and unraveled with little trouble.

            “They’re afraid of you,” he said. “They didn’t even bother tying _me_ up. Not much I can do to them. I could study a hundred years and not be a fraction as strong as they are.”

            The spriggan gave a longer creak, punctuated with a series of rapid clicks. Hermann smiled ruefully.

            “You’ll have to excuse me. I don’t speak tree spirit.”

            There was a rustling sound like wind sighing through leaves. Hermann stuck his fingers through the cage door, futilely trying to reach out to her.

            “I was too slow last night,” he said. “And I’m no use now. Forgive me. I’d throw _them_ into the fire if I could, I swear it.”

            The spriggan was still and silent for a moment. She lifted her head and twisted as best she could, trying to see where the witches were; there was a makeshift alchemical table by the hagraven’s nest and all four of them were gathered there, Morwenna the hagraven croaking out instructions as the witches worked. The spriggan rocked and twisted, rolling onto her stomach, then her side, then her back. Hermann drew back in surprise as she rolled right up to his cage, staring up at him.

            “Um,” he said.

            The spriggan nodded. He looked at her blankly.

            “Um?”

            She gave a rattling hiss and nodded harder. He leaned towards her, puzzled.

            “What is it? I can’t help you-”

            The spriggan took a deep breath and blew it right in Hermann’s face. He jerked back in alarm; his vision turned blurry, the world tinted in shades of vivid green, and he could hear nothing but the gentle rustling of leaves in wind. The spriggan watched him, the green growing brighter.

            “What have you done to me?” he asked, voice a thread. “What have you done?”

            _Myself I give myself to you I’ve given myself_ , the spriggan said. He still heard nothing but the wind-tossed leaves, but her voice was woven through it. _Mine until I release release when we are both of us free._ _Bound I am bound but not for long, not you you are not bound._

“You… _you_ bound me…take it away. Take it away, what have you _done…”_

 _Kill me they will kill me but they do not plan to kill you._ _So the power they want I share with you you are given a piece of myself, and I am all things that grow. Home this is my home my sisters’ home, and we are all connected to it._

Hermann slid down against the door of his cage and curled on the ground, dizzy as the spriggan’s magic thrummed through him.

            “S…so…what am I? An honorary sp…spriggan?”

            _A chance a gamble a hope. Mine and beyond mine, Hist-born._

            He blinked hard, raising his head and looking to the spriggan. She stared back at him, glowing so brightly it hurt to look at her. He could sense her, an indescribable presence of _life_ in the back of his mind, of roots spearing through the earth and leaves turning to face the sun; she was a forest unto herself. He took a steadying breath and whispered to her, speaking in her language of rustling leaves.

            “ _What do you need me to do?”_


	7. Chapter 7

               

 

 

                 “Are you proud of yourself? I _really_ hope you’re not proud of yourself.”

                  Newt curled up into a tighter ball on his bedroll, refusing to look up, dragging the thin woolen blanket over his head for good measure.

                  “Silent treatment, huh?”

                  “Mmngh.”

                  “Ah, he speaks. Is he going to _vomit,_ too?”

                  Newt threw the blanket off and glared over the campfire. The sudden movement made his uneasy stomach lurch and he slowly eased himself back down with a wince, arms hugged around himself.

                  “I don’t get it,” he said. “Nords pop snowberries like sweets. I eat four and it feels like my stomach’s on fire.”

                  “It might be that your delicate Bosmer institution isn’t built for the same garbage Nords can handle. They could be like goats. Here, drink this…”

                  A tin cup full of tea smelling strongly of ginger was placed by his head; Newt looked at it blearily and took it, knocking it back in a gulp.

                  “Thanks, Tendo.”

                  Tendo made a vague disapproving sound in response, shaking his head and staring down at Newt imperiously. Newt drained every last drop of tea out of the cup, disgusted by the taste but relieved to feel his stomach settling down.

                  “I’d like to think we all learned a valuable lesson today,” Tendo said. Newt grunted and laid back down on his bedroll, gathering the blanket around himself and wrapping up in a sullen cocoon. “Don’t sulk. You brought it on yourself.”

                  “I am not _sulking._ ”

                  Tendo snorted.

                  “You‘re sulking. You’re embarrassed, so now you’re going to sulk until you do another dumb thing. This one can’t help but wonder if that involves either falling off the horse again or wandering off a cliff. Are you going to really step up the effort? Nosedive off a cliff _on_ the horse?”

                  “I will set your tail on fire.”

 

                  “I’m _shaking_ ,” Tendo said mildly. He pulled the blanket off Newt’s head again, grinning at the sorry sight trying to hide underneath it. “You are an absolute disgrace.”

                  “And you’re an overgrown housecat, but that’s neither here nor there.”

                  Tendo clucked his tongue and went back to his side of the camp, pouring a cup of tea for himself and sipping on it as he sat on his bedroll, a book propped in his lap. He scratched in it every now and then with a hawk-feather quill, though more often than not he was doodling in the page margins.

                  “So. Did you eat those because you thought it was a good idea, or because you wanted to see what happens?”

                  “I ate them because they’re supposed to be good for dealing with the cold,” Newt said.

                  “Uh huh. Final report?”

                  “Feels like I have several live coals fighting for dominance in my guts.”

                  “Uh huh,” Tendo repeated, making a note with a flourish. “Groundbreaking research we’ve got here, Scholar.”

                  “Why are you picking on me? It’s the spirit of _discovery,_ alright?”

                  Tendo didn’t even bother to respond. Newt tossed and turned on his bedroll, seeking in vain for a comfortable spot. He eventually sat up, wincing and putting a hand to his stomach. Tendo was watching him smugly.

                  “Does this one need to make you more tea or what?”

                  “No,” Newt sighed. “No, I’m fine.”

                  Tendo always refused to confirm or deny if Khajiit actually purred, but Newt could have sworn he heard an edge of it in Tendo’s laugh.

                  “Poor thing. I would’ve expected a stronger constitution from a Bosmer.”

                  “A _proper_ Bosmer wouldn’t be eating plant life to begin with,” Newt said. “Maybe this is my just punishment.”

                  “Probably.”

                  Tendo sanded the pages he had been writing on and set the journal aside to let the ink dry, leaning back and looking upwards to examine the stars. He frowned, brows furrowing at the ribbons of aurora billowing across the sky.

                  “How’s a soul even supposed to navigate when the sky’s all clogged up half the time? Give me one hour without the light show and we would’ve been to the Sanctuary two days ago.”

                  “Don’t blame the world for your terrible sense of direction,” Newt said. “There’s other ways to navigate than using the stars, you know.”

                  “Hey. It never failed when this one was a sailor, alright?”

                  “Except for the one time you almost capsized after hitting an iceberg,” Newt remarked innocently. “Or the time you almost foundered and sank during that _hurricane,_ or-”

                  He cackled as Tendo picked up a pinecone and threw it at him; it went wide, landing by the packhorse. It flicked its ears at them, watching placidly as Newt scrabbled for cover under his blanket from an incoming barrage of pinecones.

                  “I surrender, I surrender! Leave off!”

                  “Rabbit-eared treehugger,” Tendo said, brushing his hands off.

                  “Hairball hacking tomcat.”

                  “Why do I put up with you?”

                  “My innate charm, why else.”

                  Tendo muttered something colorful about Newt’s particular brand of charm, looking half-earnestly disgusted. He settled onto his bedroll and picked up his journal again, blowing the excess sand off. Newt gave it a glance and sighed, pawing through his pack for an ink bottle, quill and his own travel-battered journal. It was oddly bloated, the pages stiff and crinkling. He sniffed it and made a face.

                  “Ugh. Smells like must.”

                  “Not the book’s fault you dropped it in a pond.”

                  “I wanted to see the slaughterfish-”

                  “Up close. Yes, I know. You’re lucky it didn’t take your nose off.”

                  “I have the reflexes of a true survivalist,” Newt said pompously. “I flailed and shrieked like a champion to scare it off.”

                  “Well done,” Tendo said. “Have you written _anything_ in the past few days?”

                  “Notes on the mammoth migration we saw, um…” Newt flipped through the journal’s pages, drawing out a pressed dragon’s tongue flower. “Some sample taking.”

                  “Mmh. College isn’t going to be overly impressed that your survey’s notes about weird trumpeting sheep and flowers, you know.”

                  “A mammoth isn’t a…” Newt trailed off, giving Tendo a narrow look. “Your sense of humor is awful.”

                  “Better than the puns you put this one through all day.”

                  Newt waved him off, looking down at his water-warped journal. His shoulders slumped and a heavy frown dragged his expression down in genuine concern as he flipped through the pages again.

                  “You’re right. We’re up the creek with this. The most arcane thing we’ve even seen since we got here were those standing stones over by Riverwood.”

                  “There’s no _we_ here. I’m just here to make sure you don’t get yourself killed. _You’re_ the College of Whispers scholar.”

                  “That got stuck with a project that’s turning into a joke,” Newt muttered. Tendo shrugged, though he seemed a little sympathetic.

                  “Can’t win ‘em all, Newt. So you got stuck on one dung-heap project, so what? Get it done, we go home, another month and we’ll be on the road again and I’ll be telling you not to eat stuff you find on the ground. I like to think we’ve established a comfortable cycle by now.”

                  “Yeah,” Newt said noncommittally. He put his journal off to the side and lay down again with his back to the fire, indulging a moment’s self-pity. “Night.”

                  In place of sleep, the worries he had been quietly nursing since they had arrived in Skyrim nagged at him. Newt liked field work. He really, honestly did. But being packed up and sent off into the wilderness by some stuffed-up senior mage with vague instructions of ‘ _seeing the territories and studying the arcane wildlife therein’_ smacked less of real research than him being shunted out of the way. 

It wasn’t as though his own research wasn’t important; he’d been trying for months to secure passage to Pyandonea to finally get hands-on experience studying the island’s sea serpent population. Instead, here he was braving the woods with a sarcastic Khajiit and a plowhorse, sick from eating snowberries and hoping he wasn’t quietly developing pneumonia from the unrelentingly cold mountain air. With a disgusted sigh Newt dragged the blanket back over his head and wished for sleep.

 

* * *

 

                  It was the loud creaking of tree branches that jarred Newt awake. He pulled the blanket off his head and looked around in alarm; the forest was groaning around them, though there was no wind to make the trees thrash and writhe so violently. Newt scuttled back off his bedroll and nearly pushed himself right into the fire, putting as much distance between himself and the trees as he could. There was a sense of _otherness_ in the woods, some unseen, unknowable force at work on things Newt couldn’t even guess at. A pine tree groaned and creaked, sending a shower of needles to the ground; Newt ducked away from them, not daring to let them touch him.

                  “Tendo.”

                  There was no response. Newt looked over at the sleeping Khajiit worriedly, whistling through his teeth. Tendo twitched, turning over to glare at him.

                  “There better be bandits. It’s past midnight.”

                  “Get up. Get up _right_ now. We have to go.”

                  “Why?”

                  Newt gestured broadly at the flailing trees, exasperated. Tendo blinked more fully awake and slowly got off the bedroll, hunching low as though trying not to attract their attention with sudden moves.

                  “The night’s still,” he said, baffled. “There’s not even a breeze.”

                  There was a sharp squealing of twisting, breaking wood, making them both jolt.

                  “The roots,” Newt muttered. “Look at the roots. They’re pulling themselves up.”

                  Tendo was gathering up his belongings as quietly as he could, wincing at every creak and furious hiss of leaves and needles. He looked to the horse and his eyes went wide, ears going flat against his skull.

                  “Where’s the horse.”

                  “Brawler? He’s-”

                  “Gone.”

                  The picket line had been ripped up, the horse pulling free; by the churned earth around the picket line it looked as though he had fled in a panicked gallop into the forest. Newt stared into the trees hopelessly.

                  “So we’ll walk. Not a problem.”

                  “We’re surrounded by forest on all sides. The crazy trees want to catch us, it’ll be easy for them.”

                  There was a low, droning sound behind them, coming from a pine tree with roots slithering up out of the ground like angry snakes. Tendo grabbed Newt’s arm and pulled him along; Newt hardly had time to grab his own pack and bedroll before Tendo yanked him insistently away.

                  “Stop! Stop it, I need to fold it at least-”

                  “Fold and walk. Let’s go. Nice forest, great to visit, let’s leave _right_ now and never come back.”

                  They were only ten yards away from their camp before they heard the sound of heavy, huffing breaths through the violent creaking of the trees. Tendo grabbed Newt hard by the shoulder and drew him back, watching as a pair of bears sluggishly ambled across their path. The bears were walking single file, heads down and jaws hanging open; thin ropes of frothing spittle oozed from their mouths.

                  “Are they sick?”

                  “No. Look at their eyes,” Newt whispered. “Something’s wrong with them, but they’re not sick.”

                  Tendo squinted at the bears, puzzled. There was an oddly green sheen to their eyes, some internal light reflecting outwards. The sheen faintly covered their bodies as well, he realized, the light skimming over their fur and staining their faces.

                  “They’re magicked,” he said. “Enthralled somehow.”

                  “Only thing in these parts that does that is spriggans,” Newt muttered. “But their reach is limited to their own groves…never heard of a spriggan trying to uproot a forest before.”

                  “Maybe that’s not what it’s trying to do,” Tendo said slowly, staring into the forest. The writhing branches allowed irregular shafts of moonlight to pierce down through the canopy, and in the uneven light an entire slow migration was revealed. Wolves, bears, even a heavy-jawed sabre cat that hissed in continual, empty-minded malignance.

                  “Look,” Newt said, pointing. The deep hoof prints left by their horse tracked across into the forest, in the same direction the ensorcelled herd was headed. “We follow them, we find Brawler.”

                  “Not risking my neck for a horse,” Tendo said. Newt gave him a reproving look. “What? I’m not going to! You go _right_ ahead and follow the magical death-herd into the woods if you want.”

                  “You have no sense of adventure.”

                  “You’re jesting, right? You think _this_ is an adventure?”

                  Tendo pointed at another, far bigger sabre cat padding past them; its eyes were wide and blank, thinly frothing at the mouth just like the bears. Newt shrugged.

                  “Arcane researcher stumbles upon the arcane,” he said. “I’m obligated by duty.”

                  “This one has a few ideas of where you can stick your _obligation,”_ Tendo muttered, though he finally let go of Newt’s shoulder. “This is suicide.”

                  “Probably.”

                  “Spriggans _hate_ people.”

                  “True. But…I’m Bosmer.”

                  “Congratulations. I had no idea.”

                  “All I mean is it might win me some kind of favor,” Newt said; Tendo made a disgusted sound, pushing Newt forward.

                  “Yes. Like a five second head start before it tries to eviscerate you.”

                  “Ahh, there’s the good old Tendo optimism.”

                  “Dying for the sake of curiosity,” Tendo muttered, following behind Newt in profound annoyance. “Feels like there should be a cautionary tale about this kind of thing.”

                  The strange sense of consciousness and willpower that shrouded the woods grew stronger the deeper they went. The herd of enthralled animals was eerily silent around them, contrasted by the almost pained groans and creaks of the trees; despite Tendo’s dour expectations that the trees would somehow attack or catch them, they passed through with little issue beyond tripping on roots.

                  “It’s strong, whatever it is,” Newt whispered. “But it doesn’t have a handle on what it’s doing. Can’t decide if it wants the animals or the forest itself.”

                  “How can you even tell?” Tendo whispered back crossly, stumbling as the roots of an ancient, gnarled oak nearly sent him sprawling.

                  “There’s a _sense_ to it…like someone whispering in the background. Can’t hear the words but the intent’s obvious.”

                  “I’ll say this much, I’m surprised there’s this many animals in the woods at all. Three days walking and not so much as a chirp from the birds.”

                  “I know,” Newt said. “It was strange, wasn’t it? And the stands of trees we saw dying...”

                  Tendo was quiet for a moment, ears laid flat again and his tail a bottlebrush from agitation.

                  “Spriggans tend to forests,” he said. “So what happens to a forest when the spriggans _die?_ ”

                  A pack of wolves walked stiffly past them, hackles raised but seeming indifferent to their presence. Newt watched them, troubled.

                  “I don’t think you can kill off an entire spriggan population. They just…I don’t know. Grow back. But killing one can do serious damage before it’s replaced.”

                  “So what’s doing the killing, this one wonders.”

                  The sense of intention was growing smothering; Newt winced at the heaviness of it, shoulders hunching as though he was burdened. Tendo, who was as magical as a rock and just about as perceptive to arcane energy, put an arm around his shoulders and helped him straighten.

                  “It’s not worth it. We should turn back.”

                  “No. I want to see this.”

                  Some of the animals were running past them now, urged along by whatever was controlling them. Newt stifled a horrified sound as a trio of frostbite spiders skittered past them, drooling venom rather than froth.

                  “Bet you five septims it’s a Daedra summoning gone wrong.”

                  Newt didn’t answer. He pulled away from Tendo, attention fixed on a small, pale flicker of light in the distance, hardly visible through the convulsing trees. He pushed past an enormous bear and side-stepped around several foxes, staring at the light; the will’s epicenter was up on that hill, calling out…

                  “Newt?”

                  Tendo tugged on Newt’s sleeve, pulling him back. He sounded distant and muffled, the will overpowering every other perception. The intentions were clearer now; defense, protection, defiance.

                  “I don’t think we should go any further,” Newt said, tearing his gaze away from the light with effort. “You’re right. We should turn around.”

                  Tendo bit back the _‘I told you so’_ struggling to escape, pulling Newt again and turning around.

                  “Alright. Should be easy to get back to the main road, just have to avoid the-”

                  The forest gave an almighty shudder around them, startling Tendo to silence; the will grew suffocating and Newt cried out, arms up and shielding himself. Winds rose and roared over them, sucked towards the hill. The trees all bent towards it, leaves and debris kicking up in a blinding rush that covered the hill entirely, snuffing out the flicking light. The wind rose into a high, deafening shriek, reaching an unbearable apex, and suddenly it exploded outwards again. The storm of debris roared back through the trees, enveloping everything in its path - it covered Tendo and Newt like a shroud, choking and silencing. 

                  

                 

 


	8. Chapter 8

 

 

 

                 The most frustrating and interesting thing about magic was that it followed its own laws. It was a warped reflection of the principles of the mundane world, taking familiar concepts like gravity or time and manipulating them beyond recognition. Hermann recognized that little more than half an hour had passed since the spriggan had bound him, but time had seemed to turn inside out and cease moving altogether. He remembered with perfectly clarity as the witches dragged the spriggan away from his cage unsuspecting, lashing her limbs in place with black ropes and pinning her spread-eagle on the ground. He remembered watching the hagraven kneeling beside her, the knife raised high and plunging downwards to smash into her heart.

                  After that things got a bit distorted, past and present events blurring together until he was uncertain if he was remembering _,_ or experiencing.

                  Hermann had decided he no longer wished to stay in the cage. It was made of old, solid wood; he had laid his hand on the door and the wood had grown hot and splintering apart. It surprised him how forcefully the door blew off. He wasn’t really in the habit of making _anything_ explode, really – waste of energy and the mess was always deplorable to try and clean up afterwards. Hermann had slipped out of the cage – or was he walking _now_ , approaching the shocked coven and the hagraven, hissing in a language of wind rattling through leaves? How was he remembering what was happening in that exact moment?

The hagraven is standing and turning to face him, the knife is embedded in the spriggan’s chest – the spriggan is screaming in pain but there is no fear there is only _rage,_ rage at these thieves and their filthy magic and Hermann is her tool and-

 

                  _What do I do how do I kill them must I kill them? I do not want to **be** like them._

_No choice there is no choice they will murder you as they have murdered me._

A hot flash of anger boiled in Hermann’s chest. Murdered. They had _murdered_ the spriggan, scrabbling like greedy children for her heart and her power. The power _he_ wielded. The anger spread like a slow-burning fire outside his senses, leaching into the forest around him. The spriggan was the forest and he was hers, and in that moment he understood why the witches had been so desperate to steal her power – he could feel the living earth breathing around him, and with the slightest push of his will he felt it bend to him.

                  The forest shuddered with the force of his anger, the trees pulling up their roots and shaking themselves to pieces. The dying spriggan gave a warning cry and he tried to tamp down the fury and channel it – he pushed past the trees, searching the web of life and power for something he could use. The coven was swooping down around him and he pushed them back through sheer force of will, the fire guttering out and leaving them in darkness filled with the violent creaks and groans of the breaking trees. He could hear the dreadful croaking voice of the hagraven spitting out orders to her coven, and his anger sharpened to hatred. She was a violation of life and magic, her very existence an unforgivable transgression.

                  The web stretched and became a net, snaring every sense of life he could find. Wolves, bears, sabre cats, - teeth and claws and rage, pulling them towards the forsaken hilltop. Hermann took a step forward and the hagraven fell back, scrabbling over the body of the spriggan and tracking through the extinguished fire pit.

                  “Thief,” she said. The word echoed in the past and the present, winding together in a hateful shriek that pierced Hermann’s mind to the quick. He flinched at the cold pain of it, baring his teeth at her. The trees reacted violently – one of the witches shrieked as the pines bordering their camp bent together and formed a close-woven cage, roots writhing out of the soil.

                  “Murderer.”

                  In some distant part of himself, Hermann wondered at the terrifying quality of his own voice. He had never known he was _capable_ of sounding so cold…so vicious. The spriggan’s power was taking him too far from himself, and he couldn’t seem to stop it.

                  “What deal have you struck? What have you done? You’re _weak,_ mageling. It’s my kind can wield this without burning, you-”

                  Her voice was disease and decay in his ears; Hermann snapped an arm out and the air itself reacted, smashing against the hagraven and sending her sprawling to the ground. She lay in a crumpled, cawing heap, staring up as Hermann loomed over her, snarling madly. The spriggan’s power was spread out too far and drawing on too much at once;  in that same faraway part of his mind Hermann realized he was in a great deal of pain.

                  “Usurper,” he spat, and his voice was a serpentine hiss. He reached down and grabbed the hagraven by her scrawny neck, hoisting her up. “This place is _ours._ ”

                  _No. No….I shouldn’t be doing this. I’m not a killer. Please, I-_

“You do not _deserve_ it,” the hagraven said. His grip tightened, his claws digging into her flesh.

                  _I am not a killer. I am not a killer, I will not DO THIS-!_

The hagraven’s struggling breaths were growing more frantic, her oily eyes bulging as Hermann strangled her one-handed. The spriggan’s power was pooling in his mind and setting every nerve on fire, bent on the single purpose of making him snap her neck.

                  “No,” he said to himself, his voice small beneath the hissing rage. “No. I…I will _not._ ”

                  The spriggan’s voice was whispering urgently, forcing him to keep going; he realized the vast presence of her had shrunk. Everything she was had taken shelter in him, pushing him.

                  _I am not as they are. Please. I did this to help you._

_Help me you help me by killing them Hist-born there is no way but this there was never any other way._

Time slowed to a frozen, breathless moment, the twining rivers of past and present falling flat. Hermann’s gaze turned inward and he saw the spriggan spreading through his mind and soul in a shivering, dying light.

                  “Don’t make me do this,” he said. The spriggan-soul hissed angrily, tightening her grip on him – he felt his hand respond at once, grasp crushing.

                  _Sisters my sisters they killed them you do not understand you pretend sympathy hist-born but you do not understand this loss. You said you would kill them you said you would push them into fire to burn why do you back down now?_

“You’re right…I can’t begin to understand what they took from you. But torturing them to death isn’t justice. It’s depravity. _Their_ kind of depravity. You wouldn’t stoop to their level so easily, would you?”

                  The spriggan-soul stared hard at him, her power prickling through his body in agonizing hot needles.

                  _Dead I am dead too now dead and lost and gone they will cut me open and eat my heart._

“I won’t allow that. I can stop this without both of us becoming monsters like them.”

                  _How?_

Hermann could feel time shuddering around them; he knew on the outside he was moments away from killing the hagraven, and couldn’t even begin to imagine what had happened to the witches. He realized he had no idea how to beg clemency for the creatures, much as they didn’t deserve it – he’d spoken in anger when he had sworn he would kill them. The spriggan had woven his words into the binding and with a cold shudder he realized he truly couldn’t resist her will to carry out the threat.

                  “I…we. We could…” He grasped for anything, any loophole in the binding. The pressure of the spriggan’s power was bearing down on him outside, his skull feeling like it was splitting and his blood running too hot and quick in his veins. “We…”

                  The wordless voices of animals were ringing in his ears through the net, snarling and hissing and growling – in an instant inspiration struck. Hermann’s heart leapt, the relief so sharp it was almost painful in itself.

                  “They want to connection to the forest, don’t they?” he asked, voice deadly calm and quiet. “Fill the void where their souls used to be and bend that power to their wills without letting it become part of them. I say…we change them from what they _are_ , and sentence them to new lives.”

                  _They do not deserve to live!_

                  “Not as they are. No, they truly don’t. But as creatures that serve _your_ kind…”

                  Hermann could feel his fingers crushing the hagraven’s windpipe and he looked at the spriggan-soul pleadingly.

                  “Is that not a better vengeance?”

                  The spriggan-soul was quiet for a long moment. The emerald glow of her flickered, and she sighed long and low.

                  _It is…._

_….suitable._

The sense of time constricted and suddenly expanded again, Hermann’s magic-clouded perception sharpening. He let go of the hagraven and let her fall to the ground, stepping back. He felt the spriggan tapping into his own magic, braiding it together with her own. His hands raised and sketched unfamiliar sigils, claws raking through the air as though scratching at flesh - spells of unraveling and reshaping so complex and powerful Hermann was certain they would have backfired on him had he been casting them alone.

                  The spells crackled, words rolling off his lips in no language he could understand – Hermann felt the spriggan-soul pulling power from the very earth itself to fuel their work, binding the coven and hagraven. Blinding light bloomed in his hands; for the first time Hermann could see the results of his struggling use of the spriggan’s power. The trees were distorted into unnatural shapes, and around the hill in a herd of hungry, seething anger animals crowded, foam dripping from mouths snapping at empty air. Hermann shuddered inwardly at the sight of it all, shrinking back into his mind and the spriggan-soul.

                  _Hist’s mercy, what have I done?_

_Control and wrath and ruin. Matters not it matters not you did only as I willed you to. No damage that new sisters cannot repair._

_I’m sorry I couldn’t save you._

There was a light touch against him, like a hand brushing in awkward comfort.

                  _Dead my body is dead but my heart remains._

                  _Yes…at least there’s that._

                  The wind was howling, turning in a vortex that churned energy from the air to feed into the growing spell. Hermann peered through the haze of magic into the clearing, wondering where the witches had gone – he saw one skewered by the bald roots of a pine and quickly looked away, feeling sick. His voice never lost rhythm and the spell made the world shudder as it circled into itself, an unending wheel that described the very nature of bones and flesh. Were he not exhausted, terrified and half-certain he was going to burn to a husk from the power flowing through him, Hermann knew he would have found it fascinating to study. This magic was incredibly advanced - a perfect channeling of intention.

                  The hagraven stared up at Hermann with pure loathing, screaming defiance – dirty white flames burst from her outstretched claws, licking at Hermann’s robes and face. They slid off him like water, leaving only unpleasant heat behind. He snapped his hands out and the wheel spread in a ring of light, enveloping the coven and the hagraven like a wave. The vortex of wind exploded outwards; Hermann could hear the groans of shattering trees ripped out of the ground, animals yelping and howling as his hold on them slipped and released them from their haphazard binding.

                  The voices of the coven screaming in tandem choked, twisting into high pitched yowling and whines. Hermann sank to his knees in profound exhaustion and squinted into the murky darkness; three foxes were fighting free of the tangles of black robes, and a harsh-voiced elderly raven was flapping about in confused circles. Hermann felt very sick again, and he clapped a hand to his mouth to push back the bile crawling up his throat. He had turned them into animals. He knew deep inside that as terrible as they had been this was a better punishment than torment and death, but he couldn’t help but wonder if their conscious minds were still awake in these new bodies, screaming within their prisons.

                  _Gone they are gone forever. Changed and tamed and renewed, forever to serve my sisters._

The spriggan-soul’s voice was barely above a whisper, so soft Hermann had to strain to hear it. He pushed his relief at her reassurances aside, reaching out to her.

                  _What do I do now? I couldn’t save you. What will happen to you?_

                  _Dead only in body not yet dead in spirit…the cuttings of a tree may grow again if they are planted in fertile soil. My heart you must salvage my heart, Hist-born. Please._

Hermann closed his eyes and took a deep breath, drawing on what little energy he had left and forcing himself up. His entire body ached, muscles cramped and his teeth chattering from stress and coldness. His bad leg was in agony and he hissed curses with every step he took, limping to the spriggan’s prone body. There was a flickering firefly glow within her chest; the black knife had broken through her ribs and nicked a deep gash into the taproot, but it was still warm to the touch as Hermann pulled it free. It came loose with surprising ease and he cradled it, the residual power drifting across his skin like a soft breeze.

                  _This is quite morbid. Can’t say I like ripping the hearts out of people._

The spriggan-soul didn’t answer; there was a soft sighing in his mind, leaves rustling gently together…and then silence. He suddenly felt very alone – the forest presence was gone, the sense of life and the earth faded like a dream. Hermann’s eyes stung with tears and he hugged the taproot close, weeping. The foxes yipped to each other and trotted off into the forest, shying away from the noise. The raven had finally found steadiness in its wings and flapped up into one of the pines, preening itself.

                  “What do I do now?” Hermann whispered, mind reeling in exhausted shock. “Hist’s mercy, what do I do now?”

                  There was a sharp snapping of branches and voices calling out to each other at the foot of the hill; Hermann jolted at the noise, shrinking back.

                  “What…in the name of Oblivion and every forsaken Daedra _was_ that?”

                  “I don’t know. The magic’s gone flat…”

                  Hermann staggered to his feet, unsure what to do. He had no idea if the speakers were friendly and wasn’t sure he wanted to stick around and find out. He had no staff and knew he wouldn’t be able to hobble very far…but it was a better option than skulking in the clearing. He limped as fast as he could, almost immediately tripping over the abandoned pile of the former hagraven’s clothes. His foot hit something hard, making him wince; a doeskin pouch bulging with its stolen contents. Hermann picked up the pouch and drew out the Dwemer orb, looking at it and the spriggan’s taproot wearily. Ancient, unknown magic was quickly losing its appeal.

                  Footsteps crackled on fallen branches, the two speakers climbing up the hill. Hermann whirled around in fright as they pushed through the cage of branches; a Bosmer and Khajiit looking as worse for wear as he felt stared back at him in deep surprise. No one spoke for a very tense few moments; the Bosmer finally cleared his throat, raising a hand in hesitant greeting.

                  “Need some help?”


	9. Chapter 9

“He doesn’t speak much, does he?”

                  “No. But then, you speak enough for all three of us.”

                  Newt fixed a withering look on Tendo that was completely ignored. Behind them, Brawler snorted and trudged along, his rider sitting hunched over and silent in the saddle. The horse had been wandering around the hill and coaxed back easily with a carrot; Newt and Tendo had worked to coax Hermann along as well, offering to let him ride back to Kynesgrove. It had been a grudging, silent acceptance of charity. Newt looked over his shoulder at the brooding Argonian, only to be pushed forward by Tendo with a warning sound.

                  “No questions. You leave him be.”

                  “Do you really have to play nursemaid to _everyone_?” Newt snapped in an undertone. “I’m not going to interrogate him.”

                  “Good. I doubt he’d do more than blink at you anyway.”

                  Hermann could hear them both clearly but didn’t bother giving the least reaction. The spriggan’s taproot was cradled in his hands as he rode the slow, heavy-footed horse, giving the beast free rein as they went down the main road. The warm wood glowed richly green inside, pulsing like a heartbeat. The pulses were coming too quick for his liking; they were fast and shallow, and Hermann was certain the glow was starting to dim. The longer the taproot went without being planted the closer it came to dying completely.

                  The thought of failing the spriggan a second time made Hermann’s insides lurch with awful, guilty anxiety. The spirit was counting on him to help her from beyond the burial cairn, and he had no idea if he even could. He hugged the taproot protectively to his chest, looking up at the odd pair that had found him. The Khajiit had been more cautious approaching him on the hilltop, murmuring to him as though he was a scared wild animal he was trying to lure to safety. Hermann supposed he had looked rather feral and terrorized, what with escaping a coven of witches and possession by spirits. The Bosmer had been scattered in his attentions, trying to help and poke around the ruined camp at the same time. He’d salvaged a great deal of the former coven’s belongings, sorting the useful from the heinous for future use.

                  They had both tried to be kind to him, Hermann admitted to himself. It wasn’t their fault he wanted only to be away from them the minute he was able. Brawler snorted and flicked his ears at flies, startling Hermann as the horse shuddered and shook his head to dispel the biting pests. The taproot slipped in his grip and Hermann cried out as he dropped it, nearly falling out of the saddle himself as it fell to the ground. Newt was beside the horse in a flash and picking up the taproot, gingerly handling it as he passed it back.

                  “It’s alright,” Newt said, voice surprisingly gentle as he saw how panicked Hermann was. He snatched the taproot out of the Bosmer’s hand without thanks as he turned the spriggan’s heart over and over in his hands, searching for damage. “Those things are hard as rocks. You’d have to really whip it at the ground if you wanted to damage it.”

                  “How would _you_ know?” Hermann snapped, his anger at his own clumsiness making him sharp. Newt frowned in slight offense.

                  “It’s my job to know. I’m a scholar of arcane beasts, and it’d be pretty poor of me not to know you could use a spriggan’s taproot as a kickball and not be able to damage it.”

                  “It already _was_ damaged. The knife, it-” Hermann’s voice caught and he drew away from Newt. “I…excuse me. I’ve said too much.”

                  Newt seemed keen to continue the growing argument, waiting out Hermann’s sudden recalcitrance as Brawler took up his plodding pace again. Hermann pointedly ignored him; it seemed only to encourage the Bosmer more, and he prodded Hermann’s leg.

                  “You can pretend I’m not here as much as you like, but it’s going to slip out some time,” he said. Hermann merely grunted. “You’re not excused.”

                  Hermann blinked down at him.

                  “Pardon?”

                  “You said, ‘ _excuse me’_. And I’m saying no, you’re not excused. Something happened on that hill. I’ve never felt a magic casting like that before, and you clearly were worse for wear from it when we found you. So why don’t you-”

                  “ _Newt._ ”

                  Tendo’s voice was a whip crack; Newt winced, giving up his harassment and half-jogging back to his place at the Khajiit’s side. Hermann watched him with narrowed eyes as Tendo quietly reprimanded him. It was none of his damned business what Hermann had gone through, and he was certainly not going to share his life story with such an obnoxious person. The minute he got to Kynesgrove he’d wash his hands of the both of them and try to figure out his next move. He looked down at the taproot and gently polished off the dust of the road from it, cradling it close.

 

* * *

 

 

                  Camp was makeshift, quiet and uncomfortable for all three of them. Hermann’s pack had been salvaged from the hagraven’s nest, all its contents and provisions the witches hadn’t ruined back inside. Hermann read his book without really seeing the pages as Newt and Tendo went about their business on the other side of the tiny clearing, the taproot on his lap. The Dwemer orb was wrapped up and stowed away in the bottom of his pack again. Hermann had cleaned it as best he could, but there was a strange, faint odor of hot metal that clung to it now. The hagraven’s touch had done something to it - her handprints lingered on its glossed surface. Hermann brooded over the idea that she had somehow corrupted it. How could he present it to the College now? Whatever his father’s friend had wanted it for, surely it would be of no use anymore. He had gone and made a ruin of everything…

                  “Hey.”

                  A shadow had fallen over Hermann without his noticing. He looked up to find Tendo offering bread and strips of dried meat on a tin plate. Hermann set his book aside slowly and took the plate, forcing himself to murmur vague thanks.

                  “It’s no problem,” Tendo said. Hermann bent over his food and quietly wished Tendo would leave him alone; Newt was sitting by himself by the horse, stuffing food into his mouth as he wrote in his journal and ignoring them all. “Can I join you?”

                  Hermann couldn’t find a polite way to say no. He nodded and Tendo sat beside him with his own plate, gnawing at the tough, sour bread. The entire camp was shrouded in awkward silence no one seemed able to break; Hermann picked at his food, giving Tendo sidelong glances. Despite the hard living he was enduring on the road he looked clean and well fed; compared to him Hermann felt very travel worn, his scales dull and his feathers drooping forlornly over his face.

                  “So,” Tendo said. Hermann looked away quickly, feigning interest in his dinner. “Where are you headed?”

                  “Kynesgrove.”

                  “And beyond that?”

                  “Away,” Hermann said. Tendo was waiting patiently for him to continue and he found himself very uncomfortable with the attention. “I don’t know. I’ve got to…I’ve business to attend to in Winterhold. Then I’ll be on my way out of Skyrim as soon as possible.”

                  “Why Winterhold?”

                  Hermann nodded listlessly at his pack.

                  “Some Dwemer bauble I’ve been asked to deliver. I’ll drop it off and leave it to be someone else’s problem…I just want to go home.”

                  His voice wavered; Hermann felt a dreadful surge of humiliation as he realized he was trying not to weep. He looked away, his hands clutching at his plate hard enough for the edges to cut into his palms. He wished he was a thousand miles away, far from Tendo’s concerned gaze and Newt’s incessant quill-scratching, away from the song of forest birds he didn’t know and a sun that seemed unable to warm him no matter how brightly it beat down upon him. His grand adventure had ended in utter disaster and he couldn’t turn and flee back to Blackmarsh fast enough.

                  “Sounds like a good plan,” Tendo said, gentle but slightly awkward. “Me and Newt are still going to be roaming around here…we were looking for some kind of tree shrine, actually. Turning in circles for days trying to find it, there’s no markers or pilgrim wayposts to point the way along.”

                  “Not just a _shrine._ It’s called the Eldergleam Sanctuary. Hear tell it’s the oldest tree in Tamriel. Maybe the world, if we could get across the seas to check out other continents.”

                  Hermann and Tendo both looked over at Newt; apparently he hadn’t been ignoring them after all.

                  “I’ve been on the seas, Newt. There _are_ no other continents.”

                  “You never went very far, though. Nirn’s a big place. Probably something hanging around out there just waiting to be discovered.”

                  “It may be big but Nirn is as flat as a map on a table. You can’t stray to the edges. What if the ships coasted right into Oblivion?”

                  “Or hit _land?_ ”

                  Tendo waved a dismissing hand, rolling his eyes.

                  “You see what I deal with?” he asked Hermann.

                  “He might have a point, though,” Hermann said quietly.

                  “Ha! _Thank_ you, Hermann. No one ever entertains the ideas because we all think we can’t _do_ it. Rig up the right kind of ship and we could sail forever…I mean, honestly? Nirn could be _round._ We might just make a loop over the sea and hit Tamriel again instead of sailing straight out uninterrupted.”

                  Hermann shrugged, finishing off his food and picking up his book again. Tendo and Newt were in their own conversation now, with the impossibilities of passing over the ocean and the notion of a _round_ world…he stared at the page he had left off on, a curious thought worrying at the edge of his mind. _The Eldergleam Sanctuary_. He didn’t know what it was but it somehow felt familiar, like a name heard in passing when he hadn’t been listening hard enough. There was a warm association with it that didn’t seem to belong to him…Hermann felt a tickle of thought at the edge of his mind, just the barest whisper of

_home_

and the book dropped from his hands. He blinked, heart juddering. The thoughts and association were _green_ , green as new leaves turning their faces to the sun and reaching reaching-

“We have to go there.”

Tendo and Newt’s conversation stuttered; they looked over at him. The expression on his face put Tendo on alert, a steadying hand on Hermann’s shoulder so he wouldn’t keel over.  Hermnn stared at him wildly, his mind split between clinging to the green that was already fading as quickly as it had come and trying to speak. Tendo nodded carefully, looking over his shoulder at Newt.

“Well, you heard him,” he said. “We have to go there.”

Newt wasn’t looking at either Tendo or Hermann, but at the taproot still sitting in Hermann’s lap; it had grown very bright for a moment, but the light was starting to struggle, its pulses weakening.

“If we go now, you think we’d be able to find it?” he asked. The green surged in tandem with a strong pulse of light, and Hermann spluttered out something that sounded like _yes._ “Well…”

He traded a look with Tendo, who sighed and got up.

“I’m not breaking camp all by myself. You have to help a _little_.”

“I will, I will…”

As Tendo went off to gather their belongings, Newt took his place sitting by Hermann. The Argonian was hunched over, the taproot hugged to his chest ad his teeth chattering. Newt made a sympathetic noise and pulled a bedroll blanket over Hermann’s shoulders.

“Invasive magic’s no good on the nerves, even if it’s benign,” he said. “It’s alright. We’re packing up.”

Hermann blinked at him; the world was very thinly veiled in green, like he was peering through a fine silk screen that overlaid everything with weak color. He nodded, swallowing hard.

“I think…it’s not her,” he said shakily. “More like instincts. I…I can’t. I can’t explain it properly.”

“I’ve never seen anyone interact with spriggans like you have. How you’ve done it and survived is….is it bad form to say I’m envious?”

Hermann’s stare narrowed, his feathers fluffing up in deep annoyance. Newt grinned ruefully.

“Ah. Yes it is, then. Sorry.”

He got up and Hermann immediately reached out for him, the annoyance flickering away. The spriggan-soul wasn’t speaking to him anymore, but some lingering connection that had laid dormant was stirred up in his head again. It pressed his own thoughts against the walls of his mind, the green taking up more and more space inside. He admitted freely to himself that the idea of being possessed again terrified him; Newt looked surprised at how Hermann gripped at his sleeve, sitting back down.

“Alright,” he said. “I won’t leave.”

“S…sorry. Being f-foolish.”

“Nah, I don’t think so,” Newt said. “Maybe just a little out of your element?”

Hermann nodded, huffing out a tired laugh.

“Been o-out of my element…since I got here. Relying on k-kind strangers and t-t-testing my luck…don’t know how long it will…how long it will hold out.”

“Fortune favors the brave. Looks like you’ve been testing it and coming out even at the very least,” Newt said, shrugging. Hermann snorted.

“I suppose that’s one…one way of looking at it.”

Tendo cleared his throat pointedly on the other side of the camp; Newt sighed and stood, carefully reclaiming his sleeve from Hermann’s deathly tight grip.

“We’ll break faster if there’s two working,” he said. “I’ll be right back, I promise.”

Hermann nodded, curling up on himself again as Newt went to help Tendo. The taproot warm but the heat felt feverish and sickly; the effort of sharing what had to be the spirit’s instincts, bred into its very soul, was killing it all the quicker. Everything blurred into grey-green shadows as a pair of hands helped him up and put him astride Brawler, and from far away he could hear Newt asking him a question. He looked down at the Bosmer, and Newt patiently repeated.

“Which way, Hermann?”

The green throbbed and Hermann shuddered, pointing south.

“That way.”

 

* * *

 

 

                  “I don’t like this.”

                  “Why? Is it the skeletons? It’s the skeletons, isn’t it.”

                  “I’ll admit those aren’t helping. But that’s not what’s troubling me.”

                  Newt looked at the dark tunnel, hands on his hips and a thoughtful frown creasing his face. He glanced over at Tendo.

                  “So…?”

                  Tendo nodded at Hermann; the Argonian was still sitting on Brawler, the taproot tight in his hands. He had grown quieter and quieter all through the night, and in the grey pre-dawn hours he had seemed to withdraw into himself completely. He had guided them through the woods to a well-hidden hill, and there they had stopped, staring down the dark pit leading downwards. There were bones of either men or Mer scattered about; they were clearly ancient, pitted and stained by long exposure to weather, but that they were there at all was off-putting.

                  “It’s a shrine, Tendo,” Newt said. “Maybe they did something Kynareth didn’t like.”

                  “And you think she’ll like _this?_ Us three going in there and him doing…something?”

                  “What a sound argument of vague paranoia, Tendo.”

                  “Don’t jest. You think this is _safe?_ I know we were trying to find the place, but to be lead to it like this…”

                  “I think it’s a risk worth taking. Worst case, we die.”

                  “And what’s the _best_ case?”

                  Newt ignored him, tugging gently at Hermann’s sleeve.

                  “You want to get off the horse now? We have to go in.”

                  Hermann rocked back slightly as though he’d been shaken awake, looking around muzzily. He slid off Brawler’s back and Newt had to scramble to catch him, helping him stay upright.

                  “Ah, I’m…I’m sorry,” he said belatedly. Newt patted his shoulder, helping him hobble towards the tunnel mouth.

                  “It’s alright, no trouble. How’s…how’s the whole spirit thing going? Are you feeling any better?”

                  Hermann shook his head, trying to focus more on descending through the tunnel and not tripping on the roots that snaked across the dirt floor. Tendo followed behind them after a moment, pushing to the front and looking wide-eyed into the growing dark.

                  “You hear that? Sounds like running water…”

                  “Probably an underground spring or something.”

                  The tunnel grew almost completely dark as they went further in, interrupted only by the faint, ghostly glow of mushrooms that grew in thick patches on the tunnel walls. It was light enough to navigate by, and soon enough the exit to the tunnel hung above them like a beacon, the darkness fading to murky grey shadows. Hermann had been leaning very heavily on Newt the entire time and his shivering suddenly grew worse as a soft breeze sighed into the tunnel, brushing against them. Newt put a supporting arm around him, murmuring.

                  “Almost there,” he said. Hermann nodded, his hands clawed around the taproot. He didn’t seem inclined to say anything; Newt pulled him along patiently, squinting in the sudden brightness. His eyes watered as they adjusted to the brightness, holding his hand up to shield them as he took in the sight. His mouth dropped open and he stood rooted to the spot, astounded.

                  The Eldergleam itself sat at the far end of the cavern, unreachable and vast. Its roots twined around each other and spread through the entire cavern, and everywhere was the scent of its flowers. The world was warm and quiet in the god-tree’s presence, the radiance surrounding it purer than any sunlight Newt had ever seen.

“This is…” he began, his voice dwindling. He looked at Tendo, pointing at the Eldergleam. “Tree.”

                  Tendo nodded, looking equally dumbstruck.

                  “ _Big_ tree.”

                  There was a soft, almost aggravated sound; Hermann pulled away from Newt, limping down the dirt path leading to the god-tree. Newt hurried after him but Hermann seemed to have completely forgotten he was there at all, almost jogging towards the Eldergleam. He winced with every step and his gait grew more lopsided, his bad leg dragging. The taproot pulsed feebly in his hands, and as he dropped to his knees at the god-tree’s base it fell out of Hermann’s grip with a heavy thud, the light almost extinguished.

                  Hermann stared at up at the tree, panting for breath from pain and exertion both; Newt knelt down beside him, picking the spriggan’s heart up and dusting it off gently.

                  “It’s brought me this far,” Hermann said; he sounded more aware and lucid, the green-tinged veil lifting off him. “It brought us here, but- she’s _home_ now, I don’t understand what to-”

                  He looked at Newt in growing distress; the taproot was cold in his hands, the light dim as a dying ember. Newt looked at it curiously, then nodded and set it down. He began scratching at the soft, rich black dirt they knelt on, then paused and brought Hermann’s hand down into the soil as well.

                  “We have to plant it,” he said cheerfully. Hermann stared at him blankly.

                  “Plant it?”

                  “Mmhm. Help me dig.”

                  The soil was beautifully soft and airy, lifting out of the growing hole with ease. Newt leaned over and peered into the hole once it was deep enough, nodding again and sitting back with a satisfied sound.

                  “That should be deep enough. She was your…well, you knew her better than I ever could. Go ahead.”

                  Hermann took the taproot and set it into the hole uncertainly, sweeping soil over it and patting it down. The taproot’s light had revived somewhat as he buried it, and Hermann sat back on his heels expecting something miraculous- a sapling springing forth and giving new leaf, light to shine down on them, a heavenly chorus- but there was nothing. He swallowed his bitter disappointment, head hanging.

                  “I think we were too late…”

                  He looked over at Newt sadly; the Bosmer had gone very still and pale, his eyes huge as he stared over Hermann’s shoulder. Hermann frowned, turning.

                  A spriggan loomed over him.

                  Hermann made an interesting wheezing sound, jolting back and colliding with Newt; they both tumbled into the dirt, staring up at the spriggan. Tendo had followed behind them and waited off to the side, sitting on a log; he was still there, stiff and silent as two spriggans sat on either side of him.  

                  “Oh,” Hermann said, The spriggan took him by the arm and hoisted him up. “OH-! No, no thank you!”

                  The spriggan creaked, the too-familiar language of rustling leaves whispering to him. Hermann shook his head and tried to pull loose.

                  “Please, I’ve done as she asked, she’s back with you now- please, please just-”

                  _quiet be quiet histborn_

“Oh no,” Hermann moaned. “Please…I’ve done as you asked, just leave me be!”

                  Warm, smooth claws brushed against his cheek. Hermann flinched as they slid under his chin and tipped his head back, eyes screwed shut.

                  _nothing fear nothing from me histborn witch-killer defender of green places_

Hermann’s eyes cracked open; he squinted at the spriggan as though expecting her claws to drive through his flesh at any moment, but there was no trace of malice in her voice. Newt and Tendo were deathly silent, staring at them both.

                  “I’m…glad I could help,” Hermann said, his voice cracking in his fear-dried mouth. The spriggan reached up, stroking his feathers with far more familiarity than he would have liked. He decided it wouldn’t be wise to protest –the spriggans might like him in their own strange, mildly threatening way, but Newt and Tendo could be torn to shreds.

                  _help yes you have helped and so we help you_

_the road is long and cold and dark_

“What do you mean?”

                  _road the road histborn it is dark too dark for small things like you_

Her claws traced down his face, perilously close to his right eye; Hermann flinched reflexively, eyes squeezing shut again. Something was pressed into his hands.

                  _take this_

_if you cannot be wise in the road you choose_

_be safe_

The rustling faded and Hermann pitched forward, only to brace himself upright with a staff. He pushed himself upright, looking around wildly; the spriggans had all vanished. Tendo slid off the log and sat on the ground with a faint sound, clutching the prayer beads wrapped around his wrist and mumbling out prayers of thanks. Newt stood up slowly, dusting himself off and looking at the staff; it was quite plain, the wood silvery white.

                  “Did that actually just happen?” Hermann said. Newt nodded.

                  “It did.”

                  He looked from Hermann to Tendo, and then clapped his hands together enthusiastically.

                  “Great! What’s next?”


End file.
